THE  POETIC    NEW-WORLD 


UNIFORM  WITH   THIS   VOLUME 
THE 

POETIC    OLD-WORLD 

Compiled  by  Miss  LUCY  H. 
HUMPHREY.  Cloth,  $1.50  net; 
leather,  $2.50  net. 

Covers  Europe,  including 
Spain,  Belgium,  and  the  British 
Isles,  in  some  two  hundred 
poems  from  about  ninety  poets. 
Some  thirty,  not  originally 
written  in  English,  are  given  in 
both  the  original  and  the  best 
available  translations. 

"Admirable.  The  selections  are  fine 
and  representative  and  surprisingly  nu- 
merous. .  .  .  Should  prove  a  distinct 
acquisition  to  the  traveling-satchel  .  .  . 
a  charming  gift." —  Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 

HENRY   HOLT   AND 
COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


THE 

POETIC    NEW-WORLD 


COMPILED  BY 
LUCY   H.  HUMPHREY 


"  I  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear." 

Walt  Whitman 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT   AND   COMPANY 

1910 


This  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurry- 
ing tides,  and  the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the 

light,  Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri 

And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover'd  with  grass  and  corn. 

Walt  Whitman. 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 

BY 
HENRY   HOLT  AND   COMPANY 


Stanbope  ipresa 

F.    H.   GILSON     COMPANY 
BOSTON.     U.S.A. 


To 
A.  R.  H. 

AND 

H.  M.  H. 

Nothing  so  sweete  is  as  our  countrie's  earth, 
And  joy  of  those  from  whom  we  claime  our  birth." 


UNMANIFEST  DESTINY 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 

And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 
Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 

Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end, 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 

The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 
Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 

The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides ! 

The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 

Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 
To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 

To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run, 
What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame  ? 

Who  saw  behind  the  cloud  the  sun  ? 
Who  knew  that  God  was  in  the  flame? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned, 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds, 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 

Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate; 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  great. 

Richard  Honey. 


PREFACE 

THIS  little  book  is  intended  for  travelers,  but 
even  more  for  patriots. 

Each  section  of  our  country  has  its  own  his- 
tory, local  color  and  charm,  which  are  more  or 
less  reflected  in  our  American  poetry.  I  have 
attempted  to  gather  together  in  this  volume 
those  descriptive  and  historic  poems  which  will 
give  an  impression  of  the  whole  country. 

It  is  possible  that  some  of  our  poets  have 
not  realized  the  wealth  of  available  material  in 
America,  but  our  literature  has  only  made  a  be- 
ginning and  the  way  lies  always  open. 

As  it  is  difficult  to  make  a  logical  arrangement 
of  the  states  and  therefore  of  the  poems,  an 
imaginary  itinerary  has  been  chosen,  which  will 
take  the  reader  by  gentle  steps  up  and  down  and 
across  the  length  of  the  land,  a  journey  through 
the  Poetic  New- World. 

Many  well-known  patriotic  ballads  and  "war- 
poems"  have  been  omitted,  because  they  have 
already  been  collected  in  good  anthologies  and 
because  there  is  no  place  for  war-time  sentiment 
in  a  book  intended  for  the  entire  country. 

Acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  following 
authors  and  publishers,  who  have  kindly  per- 


Vlll  PREFACE 

mitted  the  use  of  copyright  poems  in  this  vol- 
ume: to  the  Century  Company  for  Poe's  Cottage 
at  Fordham;  to  Mr.  Charles  Henry  Phelps  for 
Yuma;  to  the  son  of  the  late  William  Allen 
Butler  for  Broadway;  to  Mr.  Burton  E.  Steven- 
son for  Henry  Hudson's  Quest;  to  Mr.  Bliss 
Carman  for  The  Path  to  Sankoty;  to  the  Frank 
A.  Munsey  Company  for  The  Song  of  Panama  by 
A.  D.  Runyon;  to  Mr.  Joel  Benton  for  Dakota; 
to  Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee  and  Shepard  for  Mr. 
Burton's  poem  The  Old  Santa  Fe  Trail;  to 
Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  of  New  York  and 
London  and  also  to  Mr.  G.  S.  Hellman  for  his 
sonnet  The  Hudson;  to  Mr.  Ellsworth  and  Messrs. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  The  Mayflower;  to 
Messrs.  Little,  Brown  and  Co.  for  Walden  Lake 
and  Thoreau's  Flute;  to  Thomas  B.  Mosher,  pub- 
lisher, and  Mrs.  Lizette  W.  Reese  for  Anne;  to 
Mr.  Appleton  Morgan  for  the  poem  Ipswich 
Town;  to  Miss  Coolbrith  for  The  Mariposa  Lily 
and  Alcatraz;  to  Mrs.  Gertrude  Huntington 
McGiffert  for  The  Maine  Trail;  to  Mr.  Horace 
Traubel  and  Mr.  David  McKay  for  the  poems  of 
Walt  Whitman;  to  Mr.  Percy  MacKaye  and  the 
Macmillan  Company  for  a  part  of  Ticonderoga; 
to  Mr.  C.  W.  Moulton  for  Walter  Malone's 
October  in  Tennessee;  to  Mr.  Albert  B.  Paine 
for  In  Louisiana;  to  Mr.  Francis  F.  Browne  for 
Santa  Barbara;  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Bros,  for 


PREFACE  IX 

poems  by  Hamlin  Garland  from  The  Trail  of 
the  Goldseeker  and  When  the  Great  Gray  Ships 
Come  In;  to  the  Whitaker  and  Ray-Wiggin  Co., 
San  Francisco,  for  the  poems  by  Joaquin  Miller; 
to  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  for  Dawn  on  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  from  his  recent  Poems-  to  Mr. 
Walter  Learned  for  The  Last  Reservation;  to  Mr. 
Ernest  McGaffey  for  "Mark";  to  Mr.  Clarence 
Urmy  for  As  I  Came  Down  Mount  Tamalpais;  to 
Messrs.  Duffield  &  Co.  for  two  poems  by  Richard 
Hovey;  to  Messrs.  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.  for  The 
Brooklyn  Bridge  and  On  the  Elevated  Railroad  at 
noth  Street  by  Charles  C.  D.  Roberts;  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  for  On  a  Subway  Express  by 
Chester  Firkins  and  The  Oldenburys  of  Sunder- 
land  by  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn;  to  The  New  Eng- 
land Publishing  Co.  for  The  Fountain  of  Youth 
and  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor;  to  Mr. 
Wallace  Rice  for  Mount  Rainier  by  Francis 
Brooks;  The  First  American  Sailors,  Chicago  and 
lines  from  The  Racine  College  Memorial  Ode;  to 
Mr.  Thomas  Wood  Stevens  for  Arizona;  to 
Mr.  Ivan  Swift  for  In  Michigan;  to  Mr.  Charles 
Edward  Russell  for  On  a  South  Dakota  Farm  in 
March;  to  The  Macmillan  Co.  and  Mrs.  Ella 
Higginson  for  Moonrise  in  the  Rockies  and  The 
Grand  Ronde  Valley;  to  Florence  Wilkinson  for 
Niagara;  to  Miss  Webb  for  her  father's  poem 
With  a  Nantucket  Shell;  and  to  the  J.  B.  Lippin- 


X  PREFACE 

cott  Co.  for  Down  the  Bayou  and  At  Set  of  Sun 
by  Mary  A.  Townsend. 

The  poems  by  Longfellow,  Aldrich,  Bret 
Harte,  F.  D.  Sherman,  W.  V.  Moody,  W.  W. 
Story,  Celia  Thaxter,  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  J.  R. 
Lowell,  .Thoreau,  Gilder,  Emerson,  Nora  Perry, 
Edith  M.  Thomas,  T.  W.  Parsons,  J.  G.  Saxe, 
John  Hay,  Lucy  Larcom,  Maurice  Thompson, 
E.  R.  Sill,  O.  W.  Holmes,  E.  C.  Stedman, 
Bayard  Taylor  and  Whittier  are  used  by  per- 
mission of  and  by  special  arrangement  with 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers  of 
their  works. 

L.  H.  H. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 
THE   EXPLORERS 

PAGE 

FROM  THE  VOYAGE  TO  VINLAND    /.  R.  Lowell  .  .        3 

COLUMBUS Sidney  Lanier  .         5 

PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS       .        .     Walt  Whitman  .         6 

THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SAILORS.     Wallace  Rice  .       10 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH       .     H.  Butterworth  .       14 

To  THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE       .     M.  Dray  ton  .  .       ig 

HENRY  HUDSON'S  QUEST  .            B.  E.  Stevenson  .       22 

HENRY  HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE    H.  van  Dyke  .       24 

NEW   ENGLAND 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  ANNOYANCES      Anon.     .       .  .      35 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS      .       .     W.  Wordsworth  .       37 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS      .       .     J.  Pierpont   .  .       38 

THE  YANKEE  VOLUNTEERS      .     W.  M.  Thackeray  40 

MASSACHUSETTS 

MASSACHUSETTS  .       .       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier  .       43 

Plymouth 

THE  MAYFLOWER       .       .       .     E.  W.  Ellsworth  .      45 
FROM  THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES 

STANDISH H.  W.  Longfellow  47 

xi 


Xll  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Nantucket 

PAGE 

NANTUCKET F.  D.  Sherman     .       49 

WITH  A  NANTUCKET  SHELL  .  C.  H.  Webb  .  .  52 
THE  PATH  TO  SANKOTY  .  .  Bliss  Carman  .  54 

Cape  Cod 

FIRST  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS  R.  Southey  .•  .  56 
A  CAPE  COD  NATIVE  .  .  H.  D.  Thoreau  .  58 

Scituate 
THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET         .     5.  Woodworth       .       59 

Nantasket 
AGASSIZ         ...       .       .     H.W.  Longfellow       61 

Boston 

THE  HARBOR  .  .  .  .  R.  Southey  .  .  62 
THE  THANKSGIVING  IN  BOSTON 

HARBOR H.  Butterworth  .  62 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH 

FLEET H.W.  Longfellow  66 

BOSTON  COMMON  .  .  .  0.  W.  Holmes  .  69 
FROM  AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF 

HESITATION  .  .  .  .  W.  V.  Moody  .  71 

THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT  .  .  0.  W.  Holmes  .  74 

Cambridge 
FROM  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM    J.  R.  Lowell .       .       77 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  Xlll 

The  Charles  River 

PAGE 

FROM      AN     INDIAN     SUMMER 
REVERIE J.  R.  Lowell .       .      77 

Lynn 
THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN        .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow       83 

Marblehead 

THE   SWAN   SONG  OF   PARSON 

AVERY J.G.  Whittier       .       84 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE    .  .88 

Salem 

FROM   GILES    COREY   OF    THE 

SALEM  FARMS  .       .       .       .     H.W.  Longfellow       92 
SALEM W.  W.  Story        .      94 

Beverly 

HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES  .       .     Lucy  Larcom        .      97 
SKIPPER  BEN  :  -99 

THE  LIGHTHOUSES      ...  .     101 

Gloucester 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS    H.  W.  Longfellow      102 
GLOUCESTER  MOORS  .       .       .     W.  V.  Moody       .     106 

Cape  Ann 

FROM  THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE 
ANN    .  /.  G.  Whittier  no 


XIV  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

Ipswich 

PAGE 

IPSWICH  TOWN    ....     J.A.Morgan       .     114 
HEARTBREAK  HILL     .       .       .     Celia  Thaxter       .     117 

A  ndover 
FROM  THE  SCHOOL  BOY    .       .     0.  W.  Holmes      .     119 

Newbury 

THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF 

NEWBURY         .       .       .       .     J.G.  Whittier       .     122 
THE     PROPHECY    OF     SAMUEL 

SEWALL J.G.  Whittier      .     126 

Newburyport 
THE  PREACHER   .       .       .       .J.G.  Whittier  130 

Waverly 
DEAVER  BROOK   .       .       .       .     J.  R.  Lowell  .       .132 

Lexington 
A  SONG  FOR  LEXINGTON  .       .     R.  K.  Weeks        .     134 

Concord 


BROOK  FARM 

.     N.  Hawthorne 

136 

MUSKET  AQUID 

R.  W.  Emerson     . 

137 

Two  RIVERS 

" 

140 

THOREAU'S  FLUTE 

.     L.  M.  Alcoit 

141 

WALDEN  LAKE     . 

W.  E.  Channing  . 

143 

THE  SNOW-STORM 

.     R.  W.  Emerson    . 

144 

TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  XV 

Natick 

PAGE 

ELIOT'S  OAK        .       .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow      146 

Sudbury 

FROM   TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE 

INN H.  W.  Longfellow      146 

ANNE L.  W.  Reese  .       .     148 

Wachusett  Mountain 

MONADNOCK   FROM   WACHUSETT      /.  G.  Whittier         .       149 

To  WACHUSETT  .       .       .       .     H.  D.  Thoreau      .     152 

Springfield 
THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD  .     H.  W.  Longfellow      153 

Cummington 
LINES     ON     REVISITING     THE 

COUNTRY  .       .       .       .       .     W.C.  Bryant       .     156 

Piilsfield 
THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS    H.  W.  Longfellow       157 

Tyringham 

A  RHYME  OF  TYRINGHAM  .       .     R.  W.  Gilder        .     160 
EVENING  IN  TYRINGHAM  VALLEY  .     162 

MOONRISE  OVER  TYRINGHAM    .     Edith  Wharton     .     163 

Great  Barrington 

GREEN  RIVER      .       .       .       .W.C.  Bryant      .     166 
MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN     .       .  .     169 


XVI  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

MAINE 

Cape  Arundel 

PAGE 

THE  OLD  LOBSTERMAN      .       .     J.T.  Trowbridge .     171 

Saco  River 

FROM  MOGG  MEGONE       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier       .     174 
FROM  MARY  GARVIN         .  .     175 

Sebago  Lake 
FUNERAL-TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS     J.  G.  Whittier      .     176 

Songo  River 
SONGO  RIVER      ....     H.W.Longfellow      179 

Casco  Bay 
FROM  THE  RANGER    .       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier      .     181 

Portland 
MY  LOST  YOUTH        .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow      182 

Harpswett 

THE    DEAD    SHIP    OF  HARPS- 
WELL J.  G.  Whittier       .     186 

Penobscot  Bay 
FROM  MOGG  MEGONE       .       .     J.G.  Whittier      .     190 

Deer  Isle 
A  MAINE  TRAIL         .       .       .     G.H.  McGifert    .     192 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  XV11 

Mount  Katahdin 

PAGE 

To  A  PINE  TREE       .       .       .     J .  R.  Lowell.        .     194 

Norridgewock 
FROM  MOGG  MEGONE       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier      .     196 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

The  Merrimac  River 
THE  MERRIMAC  .       .       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier      .     197 

Portsmouth 

AMY  WENTWORTH       .       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier       .     201 
LADY  WENTWORTH     .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow     204 

Isles  of  Shoals 

PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE      .     /.  R.  Lowell .       .     211 
THE  SPANIARDS'  GRAVES  AT  THE 
ISLES  OF  SHOALS     .       .       .     Celia  Thaxter       .     218 

Piscalaqua  River 
PISCATAQUA  RIVER     .       .       .     T.  B.  Aldrich       .     220 

Bearcamp  River 
SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP      .     J.  G.  Whittier      .     221 

The  While  Mountains 
FROM  THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNA- 

COOK J.G.  Whittier       .     224 

CHOCORUA Lucy  Larcom        .     225 

CLOUDS  ON  WHITEFACE  "  226 


xvill  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Pemigewasset  River 

PAGE 

MY  MOUNTAIN    ....     Lucy  Larcom        .     227 

Hanover 
FROM  COMRADES  .     R.  Hovey       .       .     230 

Mt.  Monadnock 

MONADNOCK  FROM  AFAR  .     R.  W.  Emerson     .     234 

FROM  MONADNOCK     ...  .     235 

VERMONT 

The  Green  Mountains 
THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS  .       .     J.  R.  Lowell .       .     236 

Sunderland 

THE  OLDENBURYS  OF  SUNDER- 
LAND .       .       .       .  .     S.  N.  Cleghorn     .     237 

Lake  Champlain 
FROM  TICONDEROGA    .       .       .     Percy  MacKaye    .     238 

RHODE  ISLAND 

A  MEDITATION  ON  RHODE  ISLAND 
COAL W.  C.  Bryant       .     240 

Newport 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR  .  H.  W.  Longfellow  244 
A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE  .  .  Bret  Harte  .  .  251 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE  .  Nora  Perry  .  -254 
THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT 

NEWPORT H.  W.  Longfellow     257 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  XIX 

Block  Island 

PAGE 

THE  ISLAND         .       .       .       .     R.  H.  Dana  .       .     260 

CONNECTICUT 

Norwich 
THE  INLAND  CITY      .       .        .E.G.  Stedman      .     261 

Killingworth' 
THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH       H.  W.  Longfellow    264 

New  Haven 
THE  PHANTOM  SHIP   .       .  H.  W.  Longfellow     274 

NEW  YORK,  NEW  JERSEY,   PENNSYL- 
VANIA AND   DELAWARE 

NEW  YORK 

New  York  City 

HENDRIK'S  PROPHECY  .  .  Anon.  .  .  .  279 
PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW 

YEAR'S  CALL  .  .  .  E.  C.  Stedman  .  282 
WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS 

COME  IN G.  W.  Carryl  .  289 

MANNAHATTA  ....  Walt  Whitman  .  292 
FROM  A  WINTER  THOUGHT  OF 

DARTMOUTH  IN  MANHATTAN  R.  Hovey  .  .  293 

BROOKLYN  BRIDGE  .  .  .  C.  G.  D.  Roberts  .  295 


XX  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

New  York  City  —  Continued 

PAGE 

BROOKLYN  BRIDGE  AT  DAWN  .     R.  Le  Gallienne  .     296 

PAN  IN  WALL  STREET       .       .     E.  C.  Stedman  .     297 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE        .       .     R.  W.  Gilder  .     300 

BROADWAY W.  A.  Butler  .     301 

BROADWAY Edith  Thomas  .     303 

ON  A  SUBWAY  EXPRESS    .       .     C.  Firkins     .  .     305 
ON   THE  ELEVATED  RAILROAD 

AT  IIOTH  STREET    .       .       .     C.  G.  D.  Roberts  .     307 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM  .     /.  H.  Boner  .  .     307 

Bay  Ridge 

AT  BAY  RIDGE    .       .       .       .     T.  B.  Aldrich  .     310 

Hudson  River 

HUDSON  RIVER    .       .       .       .     T.  W.  Parsons  .     310 

THE  HUDSON       .       .       .       .     O.  W.  Holmes  .     314 

FROM  THE  CULPRIT  FAY  .        .     J.  R.  Drake  .  .     315 

THE  HUDSON       .       .       .       .     G.  S.  Hellman  .     317 
CATSKILL  MOUNTAINS        .       .     Washington  Irving    317 

CATSKILL Bayard  Taylor  .     318 

CATTERSKILL  FALLS   .       .       .     W.  C.  Bryant  .     319 

Tarrytown 

IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TARRY- 
TOWN         .        .        .        .        .     H.  W.  Longfellow      324 

Saratoga  Lake 

LAKE  SARATOGA  .       .       .       .     J.G.  Saxe     .  .324 

Lake  George 

LAKE  GEORGE     .       .       .       .     A.  C.  Coxe    .  .326 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  XXI 

Mohawk  River 

PAGE 

FALLS  OF  THE  MOHAWK    .       .     Thomas  Moore     .     328 

Adirondacks 
FROM  THE  ADIRONDACS     .       .     R.  W.  Emerson    .     330 

Geneste  River 
MY  OWN  DARK  GENESEE          .     W.  H.  C.  Hosmer      332 

Niagara 

NIAGARA N.  Hawthorne       .  334 

THE  CATARACT  ISLE  .       .       .     C.  P.  Cranch        .  335 

NIAGARA Florence  Wilkinson  337 

AT  NIAGARA        .       .       .       .     R.  W.  Gilder        .  341 

Lake  Erie 
PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE    J.  G.  Percival       .     342 

NEW  JERSEY 

Passaic  River 
THE  FALLS  OF  THE  PASSAIC    .     Washington  Irving    344 

Elizabeth 
FUIT  ILIUM E.G.  Stedman      .     346 

Monmouth 
THE  SPUR  OF  MONMOUTH,       .     Henry  Morford     .     350 

.    DELAWARE 

FROM  PEACH-BLOSSOMS      .       .     Bayard  Taylor     .     354 


xxil  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PENNSYLVANIA 

PAGE 

FROM  THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PIL- 
GRIM   J.  G.  Whittier       .     355 

Philadelphia 
FROM  EVANGELINE     .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow     361 


THE  SOUTH 

O  MAGNET-SOUTH       .       .       .     Walt  Whitman     .     365 
To  THE  MOCKING-BIRD      .       .     R.  H.  Wilde  .       .     367 

MARYLAND 

Frederick  City 
BARBARA  FRIETCHTE  .       .       .     J.  G.  Whittier      .     368 

DISTRICT  OF   COLUMBIA 

THE  WHITE  HOUSE  BY  MOON- 
LIGHT          Walt  Whitman     .     371 

VIRGINIA 

POCAHONTAS         .       .       .       .     W.  M.  Thackeray      372 
ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC    E.  L.  Beers   .       .373 

Mount  Vernon 

WASHINGTON        ....     Lord  Byron  .       .375 
MOUNT  VERNON  ....     David  Humphreys     376 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  XX111 

Dismal  Swamp 

PAGE 

THE    LAKE    OF    THE    DISMAL 

SWAMP Thomas  Moore     .     379 

Charlestown 
BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE         .     J.  G.  Whittier       .     381 

Hampton  Roads 
THE  CUMBERLAND      .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow      383 

GEORGIA 
Glynn 

V 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN        .     Sidney  Lanier      .     385 

Chattahoochee  River 
SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE     Sidney  Lanier      .     391 

FLORIDA 

DOWN  THE  BAYOU     .       .       .     M.  A.  Townsend .     393 
AT  SET  OF  SUN  ....  .     394 

Tampa 
TAMPA  ROBINS    ....     Sidney  Lanier      .     394 

LOUISIANA 

IN  LOUISIANA      .       .       .       .     A.  B.  Paine  .       .     395 


XXIV  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

Bayou  Plaquemine 

PAGE 

FROM  EVANGELINE     .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow     396 

Atchafalaya  Lakes 
FROM  EVANGELINE     .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow      399 

TEXAS 

The  Plains 
FROM  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE       .     Joaqnin  Miller     .     403 

FROM  TENNESSEE  TO  THE 
NORTHWEST 

TENNESSEE 
OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE   .       .     Walter  M alone     .     413 

KENTUCKY 

MY  OLD  KENTUCKY  HOME      .     S.  C.  Foster  .       .     415 

INDIANA 

INDIANA Anon.    .       .       .416 

THE  WABASH       .       .       .       .     Maurice  Thompson   418 
THE  LITTLE  TOWN  o'  TAILHOLT    /.  W.  Riley  .       .     419 

ILLINOIS 
LINES  WRITTEN  IN  ILLINOIS    .     M.  F.  Ossoli .       .     420 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  XXV 


Chicago 

PAGE 

CHICAGO Wallace  Rice        .     422 

Springfield 
FROM  LINCOLN'S  GRAVE   .       .     Maurice  Thompson  424 

Rivers  and  Prairies 

THE  PAINTED  CUP     .       .       .  W.  C.  Bryant       .  427 

"MARK" Ernest  McGaffey  .  429 

ON  THE  BLUFF    ....  John  Hay      .       .  430 

THE  PRAIRIE       ....  .  431 

WISCONSIN 

Racine 

FROM    THE    RACINE    COLLEGE 
MEMORIAL  ODE       .       .       .     Wallace  Rice        .     433 

Madison 
THE  FOUR  LAKES  OF  MADISON    H.  W.  Longfellow     434 

MICHIGAN 

IN  MICHIGAN       ....     Ivan  Swift    .       .435 

LAKE  SUPERIOR 

FROM  HIAWATHA        .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow     436 
FROM  HIAWATHA        ...  438 

HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE  .       .  "  440 


XXVI  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

MINNESOTA 

PAGE 

THE  Two  STREAMS    .       .       .     O.  W.  Holmes      .     447 

The  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
FROM  HIAWATHA        .       .       .     H.  W.  Longfellow      448 

THE   WEST 

FROM  EVANGELINE     .       .       .  H.  W.  Longfellow  453 

FROM  PASSAGE  TO  INDIA  .       .  Walt  Whitmin  .  455 

PIONEERS Hamlin  Garland  .  456 

FROM  THE  RIVER  AND  I   .       .  /.  G.  Neihardt  .  456 

THE  PRAIRIES      .       .       .       .  W.  C.  Bryant  .  458 

THE  HUNTER  or  THE  PRAIRIES  .  463 

CROSSING  THE  PLAINS       .        .  Joaquin  Miller  .  465 

SOUTH   DAKOTA 

DAKOTA Joel  Benton  .       .  466 

FROM  HIAWATHA        .       .       .  H.  W.  Longfellow  466 
ON  A  SOUTH  DAKOTA  FARM  IN 

MARCH Charles  E.  Russell  472 

THE   ROCKY  MOUNTAINS 

MOONRISE  IN  THE  ROCKIES      .     Ella  Higginson      .     476 

WASHINGTON 

MOUNT  RAINIER         .       .       .     Herbert  Bashford .     476 
MOUNT  RAINIER         .       .       .     Francis  Brooks     .     477 

OREGON 
THE  GRAND  RONDE  VALLEY    .     Ella  Higginson     .     478 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  XXV11 

CALIFORNIA 

PAGE 

CALIFORNIA Joaquin  Miller     .     478 

CALIFORNIA  WINTER  .       .       .     E.  R.  Sill      .       .     481 
THE  MARIPOSA  LILY         .       .     Ina  Coolbrith        .     483 

Rio  Sacramento 
Rio  SACRAMENTO        .       .       .     Bayard  Taylor      .     484 

Near  San  Francisco 

FROM  THE  SILVERADO   SQUAT- 
TERS    R.  L.  Stevenson    .     485 

Mount  Tamalpais 

As  I  CAME  DOWN  MT.  TAMAL- 
PAIS     Clarence  Urmy     .     486 

San  Francisco 

FROM  THE  HERMITAGE      .       .  E.  R.  Sill     .  .487 

ALCATRAZ Ina  Coolbrith  .     488 

PRESIDIO   DE    SAN    FRANCISCO 

1800 Bret  Harte     .  .     490 

THE  ANGELUS  "        "       .  .     498 

San  Joaquin 

THE    WONDERFUL    SPRING    OF 
SAN  JOAQUIN   ....     Bret  Harte     .       .     499 

Calaveras 
ON  A  CONE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES  .     Bret  Harte    .       .     503 


XXV111  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

Monterey 

PAGE 

THE   PINE   FOREST   OF    MON- 
TEREY       .....     Bayard  Taylor      .     505 

Santa  Barbara 
SANTA  BARBARA  .       .       .       .     F.  F.  Browne       .     510 

By  the  Pacific  Ocean 
BY  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAN    .       .     Joaquin  Miller     .     510 

On  Leaving  California 
ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA  .       .     Bayard  Taylor     .     511 

ARIZONA 

YUMA C.  H.  Phelps        .     513 

THE  PLAINS  OF  ARIZONA  .       .  Joaquin  Miller     .     514 

ARIZONA Thomas  W.Stevens    516 

NOON  ON  THE  PLAIN         .       .  Hamlin  Garland  .     519 

THE  GIFT  OF  WATER        .       .  "           "        .519 

VAQUERO Joaquin  Miller     .     520 

THE   SANTA    FE    TRAIL 

THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL      .     Richard  Burton    .     521 

OKLAHOMA 

THE  LAST  RESERVATION  .       .       Walter  Learned  .     522 

PANAMA 
A  SONG  OF  PANAMA  .       .       .     A.  D.  Runyon      .     524 


THE   EXPLORERS 


From  The  Voyage  to  Vinland    <z>     «^>     ^ 

T70UR  weeks  they  sailed,  a  speck  in  sky-shut 

seas, 

Life,  where  was  never  life  that  knew  itself, 
But  tumbled,  lubber-like,  in  blowing  whales; 
Thought,  where  the  like  had  never  been  before 
Since  Thought  primeval  brooded  the  abyss; 
Alone  as  men  were  never  in  the  world. 
They  saw  the  icy  foundlings  of  the  sea, 
White  cliffs  of  silence,  beautiful  by  day, 
Or  looming,  sudden-perilous,  at  night 
In  monstrous  hush;  or  sometimes  in  the  dark 
The  waves  broke  ominous  with  paly  gleams 
Crushed  by  the  prow  in  sparkles  of  cold  fire. 
Then  came  green  stripes  of  sea  that  promised 

land 

But  brought  it  not,  and  on  the  thirtieth  day 
Low  in  the  West  were  wooded  shores  like  cloud. 
They  shouted  as  men  shout  with  sudden  hope; 
But  Biorn  was  silent,  such  strange  loss  there  is 
Between  the  dream's  fulfillment  and  the  dream, 
Such  sad  abatement  in  the  goal  attained. 
Then  Gudrida,  that  was  a  prophetess, 
Rapt  with  strange  influence  from  Atlantis,  sang: 
Her  words:  the  vision  was  the  dreaming  shore's. 
3 


THE   EXPLORERS 

Looms  there  the  New  Land: 
Locked  in  the  shadow 
Long  the  gods  shut  it, 
Niggards  of  newness 
They,  the  o'er-old. 

Little  it  looks  there, 
Slim  as  a  cloud-streak; 
It  shall  fold  peoples 
Even  as  a  shepherd 
Foldeth  his  flock. 

Silent  it  sleeps  now; 
Great  ships  shall  seek  it, 
Swarming  as  salmon; 
Noise  of  its  numbers 
Two  seas  shall  hear. 

Man  from  the  Northland, 
Man  from  the  Southland, 
Haste  empty-handed; 
No  more  than  manhood 
Bring  they,  and  hands. 

Dark  hair  and  fair  hair, 
Red  blood  and  blue  blood, 
There  shall  be  mingled; 
Force  of  the  ferment 
Makes  the  New  Man. 


COLUMBUS  5 

Pick  of  all  kindreds, 
King's  blood  shall  theirs  be, 
Shoots  of  the  eldest 
Stock  upon  Midgard, 
Sons  of  the  poor. 

Them  waits  the  New  Land; 
They  shall  subdue  it, 
Leaving  their  sons'  sons 
Space  for  the  body, 
Space  for  the  soul. 
*  *  #  # 

James  Russell  Lowell. 
Columbus  l    <^y     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^>     "^^ 

(From  Psalm  of  the   West) 

COLUMBUS  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and, 
^-"     passing  grave, 
Yearns  o'er  the  sea  as  tones  o'er  under-silence 

yearn. 
Heartens  his  heart  as  friend  befriends  his  friend 

less  brave, 

Makes  burn  the  faiths  that  cool,  and  cools  the 
doubts  that  burn: — 


1  From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier  ;  copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D. 
Lamer;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


6  THE   EXPLORERS 

"I  marvel  how  mine  eye,  ranging  the  Night, 
From  its  big  circling  ever  absently 
Returns,  thou  large  low  Star,  to  fix  on  thee. 
Maria!     Star?     No  star:  a  Light,  a  Light! 
Wouldst  leap  ashore,  Heart  ?    Yonder  burns  —  a 

Light. 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  wake!  come  up  to  me. 
I  prithee  stand  and  gaze  about  the  sea: 
What  seest  ?     Admiral,  like  as  land  —  a  Light ! 
Well  !  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  come  and  try: 
What  seest  ?     Admiral,  naught  but  sea  and  sky  ! 
Well !  but  7  saw  It.     Wait!  the  Pinta's  gun  ! 
Why,  look,  'tis  dawn,  the  land  is  clear:  'tis 

done  ! 
Two  dawns  do  break  at  once  from  Time's  full 

hand — 

God's,  East  —  mine,  West:  good  friends,  behold 
my  Land  !" 

Sidney  Lanier. 


Prayer  of  Columbus     ^x     <^y     <^     *^     <o 

(On  his  last  voyage) 

A    BATTER'D,  wreck'd  old  man, 
'**•    Thrown  on  this  savage  shore,  far,  far  from 

home, 

Pent  by  the  sea,  and  dark  rebellious  brows,  twelve 
dreary  months, 


PRAYER    OF    COLUMBUS  7 

Sore,  stiff  with  many  toils,  sicken'd  and  nigh  to 

death, 

I  take  my  way  along  the  island's  edge, 
Venting  a  heavy  heart. 

I  am  too  full  of  woe  ! 

Haply  I  may  not  live  another  day; 

I  cannot  rest,  O  God,  I  cannot  eat  or  drink  or 
sleep, 

Till  I  put  forth  myself,  my  prayer,  once  more  to 
Thee, 

Breathe,  bathe  myself  once  more  in  Thee,  com- 
mune with  Thee, 

Report  myself  once  more  to  Thee. 

Thou  knowest  my  years  entire,  my  life, 

My  long  and  crowded  life  of  active  work,  not 

adoration  merely; 

Thou  knowest  the  prayers  and  vigils  of  my  youth, 
Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and  vision- 
ary meditations, 

Thou  knowest  how  before  I  commenced  I  de- 
voted all  to  come  to  Thee, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  in  age  ratified  all  those 

vows  and  strictly  kept  them, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  not  once  lost  nor  faith  nor 

ecstasy  in  Thee, 

In  shackles,  prison'd,  in  disgrace,  repining  not, 
Accepting  all  from  Thee,  as  duly  come  from  Thee. 


8  THE   EXPLORERS 

All  my  emprises  have  been  filled  with  Thee, 
My  speculations,  plans,  begun  and  carried  on  in 

thoughts  of  Thee, 

Sailing  the  deep  or  journeying  the  land  for  Thee; 
Intentions,   purports,    aspirations   mine,   leaving 

results  to  Thee. 
V 

O  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 
The  urge,  the  ardor,  the  unconquerable  will, 
The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,  stronger  than 

words, 
A  message  from  the  Heavens  whispering  to  me 

even  in  sleep, 
These  sped  me  on. 

By  me,  and  these,  the  work  so  far  accomplish'd, 
By  me  Earth's  elder,   cloy'd  and  stifled  lands, 

uncloy'd,  unloos'd, 
By  me  the  hemispheres  rounded  and  tied,  the 

unknown  to  the  known. 

The  end  I  know  not,  it  is  all  in  Thee, 

Or  small  or  great  I  know  not  —  haply  what 
broad  fields,  what  lands, 

Haply,  the  brutish,  measureless  human  under- 
growth I  know, 

Transplanted  there,  may  rise  to  stature,  knowl- 
edge worthy  Thee, 


PRAYER   OF   COLUMBUS  9 

Haply  the  swords  I  know  may  there  indeed  be 

turn'd  to  reaping-tools, 
Haply  the  lifeless  cross  I  know,  Europe's  dead 

cross,  may  bud  and  blossom  there. 

One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand; 

That  Thou,  0  God,  my  life  hast  lighted, 

With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouchsafed  of 

Thee, 

Light  rare  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 
Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages! 
For  that,  0  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here  on  my 

knees, 
Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee. 

My  terminus  near, 

The  clouds  already  closing  in  upon  me, 

The  voyage  balk'd,  the  course  disputed,  lost, 

I  yield  my  ships  to  Thee. 

My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless, 

My  brain  feels  rack'd,  bewilder 'd, 

Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part! 

I  will  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though  the  waves 

buffet  me; 
Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know. 

Is  it  the  prophet's  thought  I  speak,  or  am  I 

raving  ? 
What  do  I  know  of  life  ?  what  of  myself  ? 


10  THE   EXPLORERS 

I  know  not  even  my  own  work,  past  or  present; 
Dim,  ever-shifting  guesses  of  it  spread  before  me, 
Of  newer,  better  worlds,  their  mighty  parturition, 
Mocking,  perplexing  me. 

And  these  things  I  see  suddenly,  what  mean  they? 
As  if  some  miracle,  some  hand  divine  unseal  'd  my 

eyes, 
Shadowy,  vast  shapes,  smile  through  the  air  and 

sky, 

And  on  the  distant  waves  sail  countless  ships, 
And  anthems  in  new  tongues  I  hear  saluting  me. 

Walt  Whitman. 

• 

The  First  American  Sailors         ^>     <^y     ^ 

CIVE  fearless  knights  of  the  first  renown 

In  Elizabeth's  great  array, 
From  Plymouth  in  Devon  sailed  up  and  down — 
American  sailors  they; 
Who  went  to  the  West, 
For  they  all  knew  best 
Where  the  silver  was  gray 
As  a  moonlit  night, 
And  the  gold  as  bright 
As  a  midsummer  day — 

A-sailing  away 
Through  the  salt  sea  spray, 
The  first  American  sailors. 


THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SAILORS          II 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  he  was  ONE 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  loved  the  sea  as  he  loved  the  sun 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim! 
In  Holland  the  Spanish  hide  he  tanned, 
He  roughed  and  routed  their  braggart  band, 
And  God  was  with  him  on  sea  and  land; 

Newfoundland  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host — 

v 

And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  near  the  Equator  away  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 


Sir  Francis  Drake,  and  he  was  TWO 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  loved  in  his  heart  the  waters  blue 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim  ! 
At  Cadiz  he  singed  the  King's  black  beard, 
The  Armada  met  him  and  fled  afeared, 
Great  Philip's  golden  fleece  he  sheared; 

Oregon  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 


12  THE   EXPLORERS 

From  California  away  to  the  Pole; 
While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  he  was  THREE 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
There  was  nothing  he  loved  so  well  as  the  sea  — 

He  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb — 

He  hated  him  up  to  the  brim  ! 
He  settled  full  many  a  Spanish  score, 
Full  many's  the  banner  his  bullets  tore 
On  English,  American,  Spanish  shore; 

Guiana  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  Guiana  northward  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Sir  Richard  Grenville,  he  was  FOUR, 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  loved  the  waves  and  their  windy  roar 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim ! 

He  whipped  him  on  land  and  mocked  him  at  sea, 
He  laughed  to  scorn  his  sovereignty, 
And  with  the  Revenge  beat  his  fifty- three; 

Virginia  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host — 


THE  FIRST   AMERICAN   SAILORS  13 

And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  the  Old  Dominion  away  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 


And  Sir  John  Hawkins,  he  was  FIVE 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  worshiped  the  water  while  he  was  alive 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim  ! 
He  chased  him  over  the  Spanish  Main, 
He  scoffed  and  defied  the  navies  of  Spain — 
His  cities  he  ravished  again  and  again; 

The  Gulf  it  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  .English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  the  Rio  Grande  away  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Five  fearless  knights  have  filled  gallant  graves 

This  many  and  many  a  day, 
Some  under  the  willows,  some  under  the  waves — 
American  sailors  they; 
And  still  in  the  West 
Is  their  valor  blest, 


14  THE    EXPLORERS 

Where  a  banner  bright 
With  the  ocean's  blue 
And  the  red  wrack's  hue 
And,  the  spoondrift's  white 

Is  smiling  to-day 
Through  the  salt  sea  spray 
Upon  American  sailors. 

Wallace  Rice. 

The  Fountain  of  Youth       ^>     ^     <^>     < 

A  DREAM   OF   PONCE   DE  LEON 


A    STORY  of  Ponce  de  Leon, 
~*:     A  voyager,  withered  and  old, 
Who  came  to  the  sunny  Antilles, 

In  quest  of  a  country  of  gold. 
He  was  wafted  past  islands  of  spices, 

As  bright  as  the  Emerald  seas, 
Where  all  the  forests  seem  singing, 

So  thick  were  the  birds  on  the  trees; 
The  sea  was  as  clear  as  the  azure, 

And  so  deep  and  so  pure  was  the  sky 
That  the  jasper-walled  city  seemed  shining 

Just  out  of  the  reach  of  the  eye. 
By  day  his  light  canvas  he  shifted, 

And  rounded  strange  harbors  and  bars; 
By  night,  on  the  full  tides  he  drifted, 

'Neath  the  low-hanging  lamps  of  the  stars. 


THE  FOUNTAIN   OF  YOUTH  15 

Near  the  glimmering  gates  of  the  sunset, 

In  the  twilight  empurpled  and  dim, 
The  sailors  uplifted  their  voices, 

And  sang  to  the  Virgin  a  hymn. 
"Thank  the  Lord  !"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

At  the  close  of  the  rounded  refrain; 
"Thank  the  Lord,  the  Almighty,  who  blesses 

The  ocean-swept  banner  of  Spain  ! 
The  shadowy  world  is  behind  us, 

The  shining  Cipango,  before; 
Each  morning  the  sun  rises  brighter 

On  ocean,  and  island,  and  shore. 
And  still  shall  our  spirits  grow  lighter, 

As  prospects  more  glowing  enfold; 
Then  on,  merry  men  !  to  Cipango, 

To  the  west,  and  the  regions  of  gold  ! " 


There  came  to  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

Some  Indian  sages,  who  told 
Of  a  region  so  bright  that  the  waters 

Were  sprinkled  with  islands  of  gold. 
And  they  added:  "The  leafy  Bimini, 

A  fair  land  of  grottoes  and  bowers, 
Is  there;  and  a  wonderful  fountain 

Upsprings  from  its  gardens  of  flowers. 
That  fountain  gives  life  to  the  dying, 

And  youth  to  the  aged  restores; 


1 6  THE   EXPLORERS 

They  flourish  in  beauty  eternal, 

Who  set  but  their  foot  on  its  shores  ! " 

Then  answered  De  Leon,  the  sailor: 
"I  am  withered,  and  wrinkled,  and  old; 

I  would  rather  discover  that  fountain, 
Than  a  country  of  diamonds  and  gold." 


m 

Away  sailed  De  Leon,  the  sailor; 

Away  with  a  wonderful  glee, 
Till  the  birds  were  more  rare  in  the  azure, 

The  dolphins  more  rare  in  the  sea. 
Away  from  the  shady  Bahamas, 

Over  waters  no  sailor  had  seen, 
Till  again  on  his  wondering  vision, 

Rose  clustering  islands  of  green. 
Still  onward  he  sped  till  the  breezes 

Were  laden  with  odors,  and  lo  ! 
A  country  embedded  with  flowers, 

A  country  with  rivers  aglow  ! 
More  bright  than  the  sunny  Antilles, 

More  fair  than  the  shady  Azores. 
"Thank  the  Lord  !"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

As  feasted  his  eye  on  the  shores, 
"We  have  come  to  a  region,  my  brothers, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
And  here  is  the  life-giving  fountain, — 

Ths  beautiful  fountain  of  youth." 


THE   FOUNTAIN   OF  YOUTH  17 

IV 

Then  landed  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

Unfurled  his  old  banner,  and  sung; 
But  he  felt  very  wrinkled  and  withered, 

All  around  was  so  fresh  and  so  young. 
The  palms,  ever-verdant,  were  blooming, 

Their  blossoms  e'en  margined  the  seas; 
O'er  the  streams  of  the  forests  bright  flowers 

Hung  deep  from  the  branches  of  trees. 
"Praise  the  Lord  !"  sung  De  Leon,  the  sailor; 

His  heart  was  with  rapture  aflame; 
And  he  said:  "Be  the  name  of  this  region 

By  Florida  given  to  fame. 
'Tis  a  fair,  a  delectable  country, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
I  soon  shall  partake  of  the  fountain, — 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth  ! " 


But  wandered  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

In  search  of  that  fountain  in  vain; 
No  waters  were  there  to  restore  him 

To  freshness  and  beauty  again. 
And  his  anchor  he  lifted,  and  murmured, 

As  the  tears  gathered  fast  in  his  eye, 
"I  must  leave  this  fair  land  of  the  flowers, 

Go  back  o'er  the  ocean,  and  die." 


1 8  THE   EXPLORERS 

Then  back  by  the  dreary  Tortugas, 

And  back  by  the  shady  Azores, 
He  was  borne  on  the  storm-smitten  waters 

To  the  calm  of  his  own  native  shores. 
And  that  he  grew  older  and  older, 

His  footsteps  enfeebled  gave  proof, 
Still  he  thirsted  in  dreams  for  the  fountain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 


VI 

One  day  the  old  sailor  lay  dying 

On  the  shores  of  a  tropical  isle, 
And  his  heart  was  enkindled  with  rapture, 

And  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile. 
He  thought  of  the  sunny  Antilles, 

He  thought  of  the  shady  Azores, 
He  thought  of  the  dreamy  Bahamas, 

He  thought  of  fair  Florida's  shores. 
And,  when  in  his  mind  he  passed  over 

His  wonderful  travels  of  old, 
He  thought  of  the  heavenly  country, 

Of  the  city  of  jasper  and  gold. 
"Thank  the  Lord  !"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

"Thank  the  Lord  for  the  light  of  the  truth, 
I  now  am  approaching  the  fountain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 


TO   THE   VIRGINIAN   VOYAGE  19 


VII 

The  cabin  was  silent:  at  twilight 

They  heard  the  birds  singing  a  psalm, 
And  the  winds  of  the  ocean  low  sighing 

Through  groves  of  the  orange  and  palm. 
The  sailor  still  lay  on  his  pallet, 

'Neath  the  low-hanging  vines  of  the  roof; 
His  soul  had  gone  forth  to  discover . 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 

Hezekiah  Butterworth. 


To  the  Virginian  Voyage     <^y     <^>     ^ 

\7"OU  brave  heroic  minds, 
•*•       Worthy  your  country's  name, 

That  honor  still  pursue, 
Whilst  loitering  hinds 
Lurk  here  at  home,  with  shame. 
Go  and  subdue. 

Britons,  you  stay  too  long, 
Quickly  aboard  bestow  you, 
And  with  a  merry  gale 
Swell  your  stretched  sail, 
With  vows  as  strong 
As  the  winds  that  blow  you. 


20  THE  EXPLORERS 

Your  course  securely  steer, 

West  and  by  south  forth  keep, 
Rocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals, 
When  Eolus  scowls, 

You  need  not  fear, 

So  absolute  the  deep. 

And  cheerfully  at  sea, 
Success  you  still  entice, 

To  get  the  pearl  and  gold, 

And  ours  to  hold 
Virginia, 
Earth's  only  paradise. 

Where  nature  hath  in  store 
Fowl,  venison,  and  fish, 

And  the  fruitful'st  soil, 

Without  your  toil, 
Three  harvests  more, 
All  greater  than  your  wish. 

And  the  ambitious  vine 
Crowns  with  his  purple  mass 

The  cedar  reaching  high 

To  kiss  the  sky, 
The  cypress,  pine, 
And  useful  sassafras. 


TO   THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE  .         21 

To  whose,  the  golden  age 
Still  nature's  laws  doth  give, 

No  other  cares  attend, 

But  them  to  defend 
From  winter's  rage, 
That  long  there  doth  not  live. 

When  as  the  luscious  smell 
Of  that  delicious  land, 

Above  the  seas  that  flows, 

The  clear  wind  throws, 
Your  hearts  to  swell 
Approaching  the  dear  strand; 

In  kenning  of  the  shore 
(Thanks  to  God  first  given) 

O  you  the  happiest  men, 

Be  frolic  then, 
Let  cannons  roar, 
Frighting  the  wide  heaven; 

And  in  regions  far 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth, 

As  those  from  whom  we  came, 

And  plant  our  name 
Under  that  star 
Not  known  unto  our  north; 


22  THE   EXPLORERS 

And  as  there  plenty  grows 
Of  laurel  everywhere, 

Apollo's  sacred  tree, 

You  it  may  see, 
A  poet's  brows 
To  crown,  that  may  sing  there. 

Thy  voyages  attend, 
Industrious  Hackluit, 

Whose  reading  shall  inflame 

Men  to  seek  fame, 
And  much  commend 
To  after-times  thy  wit. 

Michael  Dray  ton. 


Henry  Hudson's  Quest         <^>    <^>    <^*    *o 

T  from  the  harbor  of  Amsterdam 
The  Half  Moon  turned  her  prow  to  sea; 
The  coast  of  Norway  dropped  behind, 

Yet  Northward  still  kept  she 
Through  the  drifting  fog  and  the  driving  snow, 
Where*  never  before  man  dared  to  go : 
"O  Pilot,  shall  we  find  the  strait  that  leads  to  the 

Eastern  Sea  ?  " 

"A  waste  of  ice  before  us  lies  —  we  must  turn 
back,"  said  he. 


HENRY  HUDSON'S   QUEST  23 

Westward  they  steered  their  tiny  bark, 

Westward  through  weary  weeks  they  sped, 
Till  the  cold  gray  strand  of  a  stranger-land 

Loomed  through  the  mist  ahead. 
League  after  league  they  hugged  the  coast, 
And  their  Captain  never  left  his  post; 
"0  Pilot,  see  you  yet  the  strait  that  leads  to  the 

Eastern  Sea  ?  " 
"I  see  but  the  rocks  and  the  barren  shore;  no 

strait  is  there,"  quoth  he. 

They  sailed  to  the  North  —  they  sailed  to  the 

South — 

And  at  last  they  rounded  an  arm  of  sand 
Which  held  the  sea  from  a  harbor's  mouth — 

The  loveliest  in  the  land. 
They  kept  their  course  across  the  bay, 
And  the  shore  before  them  fell  away: 
"0  Pilot,  see  you  not  the  strait  that  leads  to  the 

Eastern  Sea  ?  " 
"Hold  the  rudder  true  !    Praise  Christ  Jesu  !  the 

strait  is  here,"  said  he. 

Onward  they  glide  with  wind  and  tide, 
Past  marshes  gray  and  crags  sun-kist; 

They  skirt  the  sills  of  green-clad  hills, 
And  meadows  white  with  mist — 

But  alas  !  the  hope  and  the  brave,  brave  dream  ! 

For  rock  and  shallow  bar  the  stream: 


24  THE    EXPLORERS 

"O  Pilot,  can  this  be  the  strait  that  leads  to  the 

Eastern  Sea  ?" 
"Nay,  Captain,  nay;  'tis  not  this  way;  turn  back 

we  must,"  said  he. 

Full  sad  was  Hudson's  heart  as  he  turned 

The  Half  Moon's  prow  to  the  South  once  more; 
He  saw  no  beauty  in  crag  or  hill, 

No  beauty  in  curving  shore; 
For  they  shut  him  away  from  that  fabled  main 
He  sought  his  whole  life  long,  in  vain: 
"O  Pilot,  say,  can  there  be  a  strait  that  leads  to 

the  Eastern  Sea?" 

"God's  crpyt  is  sealed!     'Twill  stand  revealed 
in  His  own  good  time,"  quoth  he. 

Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 


Henry  Hudson's  Last  Voyage  1  <z>     <z>     <z> 

E  sail  in  sight  upon  the  lonely  sea, 
And  only  one,  God  knows  !     For  never  ship 
But  mine  broke  through  the  icy  gates  that  guard 
These  waters  greater  grown  than  any  since 
We  left  the  shore  of  England.     We  were  first, 
My  men,  to  battle  in  between  the  bergs 
And  floes  to  these  wide  waves.     This  gulf  is  mine; 

1  From    The  White  Bees  and  Other  Poems  ;  copyright,   1909,    by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


HENRY   HUDSON'S    LAST  VOYAGE        2$ 

I  name  it  !  and  that  flying  sail  is  mine  ! 
And  there,  hull-down  below  that  flying  sail, 
The  ship  that  staggers  home  is  mine,  mine,  mine  ! 
My  ship  Discoverie  ! 

The  sullen  dogs 

Of  mutineers,  the  bitches'  whelps  that  snatched 
Their  food  and  bit  the  hand  that  nurtured  them, 
Have  stolen  her  !     You  ingrate  Henry  Greene, 
I  picked  you  from  the  gutter  of  Houndsditch, 
I  paid  your  debts,  and  kept  you  in  my  house, 
And  brought  you  here  to  make  a  man  of  you. 
You,  Robert  Juet,  ancient,  crafty  man, 
Toothless  and  tremulous,  how  many  times 
Have  I  employed  you  as  a  mate  of  mine 
To  give  you  bread  !    And  you,  Abacuck  Prickett, 
You  sailor-clerk,  you  salted  puritan, 
You  knew  the  plot  and  silently  agreed, 
Salving  your  conscience  with  a  pious  lie. 
Yes,  all  of  you,  —  hounds,  rebels,  thieves  !    Bring 

back 
My  ship  ! 

Too  late — I  rave — they  cannot  hear 
My  voice:  and  if  they  heard,  a  drunken  laugh 
Would  be  their  answer.  For  their  minds  have 

caught 

The  fatal  firmness  of  the  fool's  resolve, 
That  looks  like  courage  but  is  only  fear. 


26  THE    EXPLORERS 

They'll  blunder  on,  and  lose  my  ship,  and  drown, — 
Or  blunder  home  to  England  and  be  hanged. 
Their  skeletons  will  rattle  in  the  chains 
Of  some  tall  gibbet  on  the  Channel  cliffs, 
While  passing  sailors  point  to  them  and  say, 
"Those  are  the  rotten  bones  of  Hudson's  men, 
Who  left  their  captain  in  the  frozen  North  ! " 

O  God  of  justice,  why  hast  Thou  ordained, 
Plans  of  the  wise  and  actions  of  the  brave 
Dependent  on  the  aid  of  fools  and  cowards  ? 

Look — there  she  goes — her  topsails  in  the  sun 
Gleam  from  the  ragged  ocean  edge,  and  drop 
Clean  out  of  sight  !     So  let  the  traitors  go 
Clean  out  of  mind  !     We'll  think  of  braver  things  ! 
Come  closer  in  the  boat,  my  friends.     John  King, 
You  take  the  tiller,  keep  her  head  nor'west. 
You,  Philip  Staffe,  the  only  one  who  chose 
Freely  to  share  with  us  the  shallop's  fate, 
Rather  than  travel  in  the  hell-bound  ship, — 
Too  good  an  English  sailor  to  desert 
These  crippled  comrades, — try  to  make  them  rest 
More  easy  on  the  thwarts.     And  John,  my  son, 
My  little  shipmate,  come  and  lean  your  head 
Upon  your  father's  knee.     Do  you  recall 
That  April  day  in  Ethelburga's  church, 
Five  years  ago,  when  side  by  side  we  kneeled 
To  take  the  sacrament,  with  all  our  company, 
Before  the  Hopewell  left  St.  Catherine's  docks 


HENRY   HUDSON'S   LAST   VOYAGE         2/ 

On  our  first  voyage  ?    Then  it  was  I  vowed 
My  sailor-soul  and  yours  to  search  the  sea 
Until  we  found  the  water-path  that  leads 
From  Europe  into  Asia. 

I  believe 

That  God  has  poured  the  ocean  round  His  world, 
Not  to  divide,  but  to  unite  the  lands; 
And  all  the  English  seamen  who  have  dared 
In  little  ships  to  plow  uncharted  waves — 
Davis  and  Drake,  Hawkins  and  Frobisher, 
Raleigh  and  Gilbert — all  the  other  names — 
Are  written  in  the  chivalry  of  God 
As  men  who  served  His  purpose.     I  would  claim 
A  place  among  that  knighthood  of  the  sea: 
And  I  have  earned  it,  though  my  quest  should 

fail! 

For  mark  me  well.     The  honor  of  our  life 
Derives  from  this:  to  have  a  certain  aim 
Before  us  always,  which  our  will  must  seek 
Amid  the  peril  of  uncertain  ways. 
Then,  though  we  miss  the  goal,  our  search  is 

crowned 

With  courage,  and  along  the  path  we  find 
A  rich  reward  of  unexpected  things. 
Press  towards  the  aim:  take  fortune  as  it  fares  ! 
I  know  not  why,  but  something  in  my  heart 
Has  always  whispered,   "Westward  seek   your 

aim." 


28  THE   EXPLORERS 

Four  times  they  sent  me  east,  but  still  my  prow 
Turned  west  again,  and  felt  among  the  floes 
Of  ruttling  ice  along  the  Groneland  coast, 
And  down  the  rugged  shores  of  Newfoundland, 
And  past  the  rocky  capes  and  sandy  bays 
Where  Gosnold  sailed,  —  like  one  who  feels  his 

way 

With  outstretched  hand  across  a  darkened  room, — 
I  groped  among  the  inlets  and  the  isles, 
To  find  the  passage  to  the  Isles  of  Spice. 
I  have  not  found  it  yet — but  I  have  found 
Things  worth  the  finding  ! 


Son,  have  you  forgot 

Those  mellow  autumn  days,  two  years  ago, 
When  first  we  sent  our  little  ship  Half-Moon — 
The  flag  of  Holland  floating  at  her  peak — 
Across  a  sandy  bar,  and  sounded  in 
Among  the  channels  to  a  goodly  bay 
Where  all  the  navies  of  the  world  could  ride  ? 
A  fertile  island  that  the  redmen  called 
Manhattan  crowned  the  bay;  and  all  the  land 
Around  was  bountiful  and  friendly  fair. 
But  never  land  was  fair  enough  to  hold 
The  seaman  from  the  calling  of  the  waves: 
And  so  we  bore  to  westward,  past  the  isle, 
Along  a  mighty  inlet,  where  the  tide 
Was  troubled  by  a  downward-rolling  flood 


HENRY   HUDSON'S   LAST  VOYAGE         29 

That  seemed  to  come  from  far  away — perhaps 
From  some  mysterious  gulf  of  Tartary  ? 
We  followed  that  wide  waterway,  by  palisades 
Of  naked  rock  where  giants  might  have  held 
Their  fortress;  and  by  rolling  hills  adorned 
With  forests  rich  in  timber  for  great  ships; 
Through  narrows  where  the  mountains  shut  us  in 
With  frowning   cliffs   that   seemed   to  bar   the 

stream; 

And  then  through  open  reaches  where  the  banks 
Sloped  to  the  water  gently,  with  their  fields 
Of  corn  and  lentils  smiling  in  the  sun. 
Ten  days  we  voyaged  through  that  placid  land, 
Until  we  came  to  shoals;  and  sent  a  boat 
Upstream,  to  find — what  I  already  knew — 
We  sailed  upon  a  river,  not  a  strait  ! 

But  what  a  river  !     God  has  never  poured 

A  stream  more  royal  through  a  land  more  rich. 

Even  now  I  see  it  flowing  in  my  dream, 

While  coming  ages  people  it  with  men 

Of  manhood  equal  to  the  river's  pride. 

I  see  the  wigwams  of  the  redmen  changed 

To  ample  houses,  and  the  tiny  plots 

Of  maize  and  green  tobacco  broadened  out 

To  prosperous  farms,  that  spread  o'er  hill  and  dale 

The  many-colored  mantle  of  their  crops. 

I  see  the  terraced  vineyards  on  the  slopes 

Where  now  the  wild  grape  loops  the  tangled  wood; 


3O  THE   EXPLORERS 

And  cattle  feeding  where  the  red  deer  roam; 

And  wild  bees  gathered  into  busy  hives 

To  store  the  silver  comb  with  golden  sweet; 

And  all  the  promised  land  begins  to  flow 

With  milk  and  honey.     Stately  manors  rise 

Along  the  banks,  and  castles  top  the  hills, 

And  little  villages  grow  populous  with  trade, 

Until  the  river  runs  as  proudly  as  the  Rhine, — 

The  thread  that  links  a  hundred  towns  and  towers! 

All  this  I  see,  and  when  it  comes  to  pass 

I  prophesy  a  city  on  the  isle 

They  call  Manhattan,  equal  in  her  state 

To  all  the  older  capitals  of  earth, — 

The  gateway  city  of  a  golden  world, — 

A  city  girt  with  masts,  and  crowned  with  spires, 

And  swarming  with  a  busy  host  of  men, 

While  to  her  open  door,  across  the  bay, 

The  ships  of  all  the  nations  flock  like  doves! 

My  name  will  be  remembered  there,  for  men 

Will  say,  "This  river  and  this  bay  were  found 

By  Henry  Hudson,  on  his  way  to  seek 

The  Northwest  Passage  into  farthest  Inde." 

Yes,  yes,  I  sought  it  then,  I  seek  it  still, 
My  great  adventure,  pole-star  of  my  heart! 
For  look  ye,  friends,  our  voyage  is  not  done: 
Somewhere  beyond  these  floating  fields  of  ice, 
Somewhere  along  this  westward  widening  bay, 
Somewhere  beneath  this  luminous  northern  night, 


HENRY  HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE    3! 

The  channel  opens  to  the  Orient, — 
I  know  it, — and  some  day  a  little  ship 
Will  enter  there  and  battle  safely  through  ! 
And  why  not  ours — to-morrow — who  can  tell  ? 
We  hold  by  hope  as  long  as  life  endures: 
These  are  the  longest  days  of  all  the  year, 
The  world  is  round,  and  God  is  everywhere, 
And  while  our  shallop  floats  we  still  can  steer. 
So  point  her  up,  John  King,  nor'west  by  north  ! 
We'll  keep  the  honor  of  a  certain  aim 
Amid  the  peril  of  uncertain  ways, 
And  sail  ahead,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 

Henry  van  Dyke. 


NEW   ENGLAND 

The  first  world-sound  that  fell  upon  my  ear 

Was  that  of  the  great  winds  along  the  coast 

Crushing  the  deep-sea  beryl  on  the  rocks — 

The  distant  breakers'  sullen  cannonade. 

Against  the  spires  and  gables  of  the  town 

The  white  fog  drifted,  catching  here  and  there 

At  over-leaning  cornice  or  peaked  roof, 

And  hung— weird  gonfalons.     The  garden  walks 

Were  choked  with  leaves,  and  on  their  ragged  biers 

Lay  dead  the  sweets  of  summer — damask  rose, 

Clove-pink,  old-fashioned,  loved  New  England  flowers. 

Only  keen  salt  sea-odors  filled  the  air. 

Sea-sounds,  sea-odors,  these  were  all  my  world. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 

Again  among  the  hills! 
The  shaggy  hills! 

R.  Hovey. 


New  England's  Annoyances         <^>    <^y    *^> 

The  first  recorded  poem  written  in  America 

TVTEW    ENGLAND'S    annoyances,   you    that 
*  ^     would  know  them, 

Pray  ponder  these  verses  which  briefly  doth  show 
them. 

The  Place  where  we  live  is  a  wilderness  Wood, 
Where  Grass  is  much  wanting  that's  fruitful  and 

good: 

Our  Mountains  and  Hills  and  our  Vallies  below 
Being  commonly  covered  with  Ice  and  with  Snow; 
And  when  the  North-west  Wind  with  violence 

blows, 

Then  every  Man  pulls  his  Cap  over  his  Nose: 
But  if  any's  so  hardy  and  will  it  withstand, 
He  forfeits  a  Finger,  a  Foot,  or  a  Hand. 

But  when  the  Spring  opens,  we  then  take  the 

Hoe, 

And  make  the  Ground  ready  to  plant  and  to  sow; 
Our  Corn  being  planted  and  Seed  being  sown, 
The  Worms  destroy  much  before  it  is  grown; 
And  when  it  is  growing,  some  spoil  there  is  made 
By  Birds  and  by  Squirrels  that  pluck  up  the 

Blade; 

35 


36  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  when  it  is  come  to  full  Corn  in  the  Ear, 
It  is  often  destroyed  by  Racoon  and  by  Deer. 

And  now  do  our  Garments  begin  to  grow  thin, 
And  Wool  is  much  wanted  to  card  and  to  spin; 
If  we  can  get  a  Garment  to  cover  without 
Our  other  In- Garments  are  Clout  upon  Clout: 
Our  Clothes  we  brought  with  us  are  apt  to  be 

torn, 

They  need  to  be  clouted  soon  after  they're  worn; 
But    clouting    our    Garments    they    hinder    us 

nothing : 
Clouts   double   are   warmer   than   single   whole 

Clothing. 

If  fresh  Meat  be  wanting,  to  fill  up  our  Dish, 
We  have  Carrots  and  Turnips  as  much  as  we 

wish; 

And  is  there  a  mind  for  a  delicate  Dish, 
We  repair  to  the  Clam-banks,  and  there  we  catch 

Fish. 
For  Pottage  and  Puddings,  and  Custards  and 

Pies, 

Our  Pumpkins  and  Parsnips  are  common  supplies; 
We  have  Pumpkins  at  morning,  and  Pumpkins 

at  noon; 

If  it  was  not  for  Pumpkins  we  should  be  undone. 
If  Barley  be  wanting  to  make  into  Malt, 
We  must  be  contented,  and  think  it  no  fault; 


THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS  37 

For  we  can  make  Liquor  to  sweeten  our  Lips 
Of   Pumpkins   and   Parsnips   and   Walnut-Tree 
Chips. 


Now  while  some  are  going  let  others  be  coming, 
For  while  Liquor's  boiling  it  must  have  a  scum- 
ming; 

But  I  will  not  blame  them,  for  Birds  of  a  Feather, 
By  seeking  their  Fellows,  are  flocking  together. 
But  you  whom  the  Lord  intends  hither  to  bring, 
Forsake  not  the  Honey  for  fear  of  the  Sting; 
But  bring  both  a  quiet  and  contented  Mind, 
And  all  needful  Blessings  you  surely  will  find. 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers 


"IT^TELL  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they 
*  •    Who,    with   sad   hearts,    of   friends    and 

country  took 

A  last  farewell,  their  loved  abodes  forsook, 
And  hallowed  ground  in  which  their  fathers  lay; 
Then  to  the  new-found  World  explored  their  way, 
That  so  a  Church,  unforced,  uncalled  to  brook 
Ritual  restraints,  within  some  sheltering  nook 
Her  Lord  might  worship  and  his  word  obey 
In  freedom.     Men  they  were  who  could  not  bend; 


38  NEW   ENGLAND 

Blest  Pilgrims,  surely,  as  they  took  for  guide 
A  will  by  sovereign  Conscience  sanctified; 
Blest  while  their  Spirits  from  the  woods  ascend 
Along  a  Galaxy  that  knows  no  end, 
But  in  His  glory  who  for  Sinners  died. 

ii 

From  Rite  and  Ordinance  abused  they  fled 
To  Wilds  where  both  were  utterly  unknown; 
But  not  to  them  had  Providence  foreshown 
What  benefits  are  missed,  what  evils  bred, 
In  worship  neither  raised  nor  limited 
Save  by  Self-will.     Lo  !  from  that  distant  shore, 
For  Rite  and  Ordinance,  Piety  is  led 
Back  to  the  Land  whose  Pilgrims  left  of  yore, 
Led  by  her  own  free  choice.     So  Truth  and  Love 
By  Conscience  governed  do  their  steps  retrace, — 
Fathers  !  your  Virtues,  such  the  power  of  grace, 
Their  spirit,  in  your  Children,  thus  approve. 
Transcendent  over  time,  unbound  by  place, 
Concord  and  Charity  in  circles  move. 

William  Wordsworth. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers    <^x     <^*     <^*     <^>     <^ 

"  I  "HE  Pilgrim  Fathers, — where  are  they  ? 
-*•    The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 
As  they  break  along  the  shore; 


THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS  39 

Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day, 
When  the  Mayflower  moored  below; 

When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 
And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 


The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone — 
As  an  angel's  wing  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 


The  pilgrim  exile,  —  sainted  name  ! 

The  hill  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head, — 

But  the  Pilgrim  !  where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest: 

When  summer's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  drest, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 


4O  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  at  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled: 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  Mayflower 
lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 

John  Pierpont. 


The  Yankee  Volunteers       ^x     <^     <^*     <o 

"  A  surgeon  of  the  United  States'  army  says,  that  on  inquiring  of  the 
Captain  of  his  company,  he  found  that  nine-tenths  of  the  men  had  en- 
lined  on  account  of  soTie  love  affair."  —  Morning-  Paper. 

YE  Yankee  Volunteers  ! 
It  makes  my  bosom  bleed 
When  I  your  story  read, 

Though  oft  'tis  told  one 
So  —  in  both  hemispheres 
The  women  are  untrue, 


THE    YANKEE   VOLUNTEERS  4! 

And  cruel  in  the  New, 
As  in  the  Old  one  ! 

What  —  in  this  company 

Of  sixty  sons  of  Mars, 

Who  march  'neath  Stripes  and  Stars, 

With  fife  and  horn, 
Nine-tenths  of  all  we  see 
Along  the  warlike  line 
Had  but  one  cause  to  join 

This  Hope  Forlorn  ? 

Deserters  from  the  realm 
Where  tyrant  Venus  reigns, 
You  slipp'd  her  wicked  chains, 

Fled  and  out-ran  her. 
And  now,  with  sword  and  helm, 
Together  banded  are 
Beneath  the  Stripe  and  Star- 

Embroider'd  banner  ! 

And  is  it  so  with  all 

The  warriors  ranged  in  line, 

With  lace  bedizen'd  fine 

And  swords  gold-hilted — 
Yon  lusty  corporal, 
Yon  color-man  who  gripes 
The  flag  of  Stars  and  Stripes — 

Has  each  been  jilted  ? 


NEW   ENGLAND 

Come,  each  man  of  this  line, 
The  privates  strong  and  tall, 
"The  pioneers  and  all," 

The  fifer  nimble — 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
Captain  with  epaulets, 
And  Blacky  there,  who  beats 

The  clanging  cymbal — 

O  cymbal-beating  black, 
Tell  us,  as  thou  canst  feel, 
Was  it  some  Lucy  Neal 

Who  caused  thy  ruin  ? 
O  nimble  fifing  Jack, 
And  drummer  making  din 
So  deftly  on  the  skin, 

With  thy  rat-tattooing — 

Confess,  ye  volunteers, 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
And  Captain  of  the  line, 

As  bold  as  Roman — 
Confess,  ye  grenadiers, 
However  strong  and  tall, 
The  conqueror  of  you  all 

Is  Woman,  Woman  ! 

No  corselet  is  so  proof 

But  through  it  from  her  bow 


MASSACHUSETTS  43 

The  shafts  that  she  can  throw 

Will  pierce  and  rankle. 
No  champion  e'er  so  tough, 
But's  in  the  struggle  thrown, 
And  tripped  and  trodden  down 

By  her  slim  ankle. 

Thus  always  it  was  ruled: 
And  when  a  woman  smiled, 
The  strong  man  was  a  child, 

The  sage  a  noodle. 
Alcides  was  befool'd, 
And  silly  Samson  shorn, 
Long,  long  ere  you  were  born, 

Poor  Yankee  Doodle  ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


MASSACHUSETTS 
Massachusetts        <^>    -x>    <^>    <^>    ^> 

'T'HE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
-*•      The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait; 


4  NEW   ENGLAND 

Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone  ! 

From  autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  ! 

Nor  heeds  the  skeptic's  puny  hands, 
While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands; 
Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school. 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


PLYMOUTH  45 

The  Mayflower       <^    -o>    <^    ^>    ^x    ^ 

(Plymouth) 

~p\OWN  in  the  bleak  December  bay 
•*^     The  ghostly  vessel  stands  away; 
Her  spars  and  halyards  white  with  ice, 
Under  the  dark  December  skies. 
A  hundred  souls,  in  company, 
Have  left  the  vessel  pensively, — 
Have  touched  the  frosty  desert  there, 
And  touched  it  with  the  knees  of  prayer. 

And  now  the  day  begins  to  dip, 
The  night  begins  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower. 


Neither  the  desert  nor  the  sea 
Imposes  rites:  their  prayers  are  free; 
Danger  and  toil  the  wild  imposes, 
And  thorns  must  grow  before  the  roses. 
And  who  are  these  ? — and  what  distress 
The  savage-acred  wilderness 
On  mother,  maid,  and  child,  may  bring, 
Beseems  them  for  a  fearful  thing; 

For  now  the  day  begins  to  dip, 
The  night  begins  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower. 


46  NEW   ENGLAND 

But  Carver  leads  (in  heart  and  health 
A  hero  of  the  commonwealth) 
The  axes  that  the  camp  requires, 
To  build  the  lodge  and  heap  the  fires. 
And  Standish  from  his  warlike  store 
Arrays  his  men  along  the  shore, 
Distributes  weapons  resonant, 
And  dons  his  harness  militant; 

For  now  the  day  begins  to  dip, 
The  night  begins  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower; 

And  Rose,  his  wife,  unlocks  a  chest — 
She  sees  a  Book,  in  vellum  drest, 
She  drops  a  tear  and  kisses  the  tome, 
Thinking  of  England  and  of  home: 
Might  they — the  Pilgrims,  there  and  then 
Ordained  to  do  the  work  of  men — 
Have  seen,  in  visions  -of  the  air, 
While  pillowed  on  the  breast  of  prayer 

(When  now  the  day  began  to  dip, 
The  night  began  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower), 

The  Canaan  of  their  wilderness 
A  boundless  empire  of  success; 
And  seen  the  years  of  future  nights 
Jeweled  with  myriad  household  lights; 


PLYMOUTH  47 

And  seen  the  honey  fill  the  hive; 
And  seen  a  thousand  ships  arrive; 
And  heard  the  wheels  of  travel  go; 
It  would  have  cheered  a  thought  of  woe, 

When  now  the  day  began  to  dip, 
The  night  began  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower. 

Erastus  Wolcott  Ellsworth. 


From  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish        ^> 

(Plynyuth) 

IV  /TONTH  after   month  passed  away,  and  in 
^    -*•     Autumn  the  ships  of  the  merchants 
Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle  and 

corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace;   the  men  were  intent 

on  their  labors, 
Busy  with  hewing  and  building,  with  garden-plot 

and  with  merestead, 
Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the 

grass  in  the  meadows, 
Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the  deer 

in  the  forest. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace;  but  at  times  the 

rumor  of  warfare 
Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehension 

of  danger. 


48  NEW  ENGLAND 

Bravely  the  stalwart  Standish  was  scouring  the 

land  with  his  forces, 
Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien 

armies, 
Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear  to  the 

nations. 
Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the 

remorse  and  contrition 
Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  passionate 

outbreak, 
Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the  rush 

of  a  river, 
Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter 

and  brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him  a  new 

habitation, 
Solid,   substantial,   of  timber  rough-hewn  from 

the  firs  of  the  forest. 
Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof  was 

covered  with  rushes; 

Latticed   the  windows  were,   and  the  window- 
panes  were  of  paper, 
Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain  were 

excluded. 
There  too  he  dug  a  well,  and  around  it  planted  an 

orchard : 
Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe  and 

secure  from  annoyance, 


NANTUCKET  49 

Raghorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had  fallen  to 

Alden's  allotment 
In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in  the 

night-time 
Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fragrant  by 

sweet  pennyroyal. 


Oft  when  his  labor  was  finished,  with  eager  feet 
would  the  dreamer 

Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the  woods 
to  the  house  of  Priscilla, 

Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  deceptions 
of  fancy, 

Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the  sem- 
blance of  friendship. 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned  the 
walls  of  his  dwelling; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the 
soil  of  his  garden. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Nantucket       <^>    <^,    *^>    <^,    ^>     <^> 

"P\EAR  old  Nantucket's  isle  of  sand, 

An  ancient  exile  from  the  Land, — 
Free  from  the  devastating  hand 
Of  pomp  and  pillage, 


50  NEW   ENGLAND 

I  find  it  year  by  year  with  all 
Its  white-winged  fleet  of  cat-boats  small 
Guarding  what  Fancy  loves  to  call 
The  violet  village. 

The  yellow  cliffs,  the  houses  white, 
The  wind-mill  with  its  wheel  in  sight, 
The  church  spire  and  the  beacons  bright, 

All  bunched  together; 
How  picturesque  they  are  !  How  fair  ! 
And,  O  how  fragrant  is  the  air, 
With  pink  wild-roses  everywhere 

And  purple  heather  ! 

Half  foreign  seems  the  little  town, — 
The  narrow  streets,  the  tumble-down 
And  rotting  wharves  whose  past  renown 

Is  linked  with  whalers, — 
The  roofs  with  Look-outs  whence  they  saw 
In  bygone  days  the  big  ships  draw 
Homeward  with  oil,  and  watched  with  awe 

The  sea- worn  sailors: 


Half  foreign,  but  the  better  half 
Is  like  the  flag  that  from  the  staff 
Flings  out  its  welcome,  starry  laugh, — 
Native  completely; 


NANTUCKET  5 1 

The  shops,  the  schools,  the  zigzag  lines 
Of  shingled  dwellings  hung  with  vines, 
And  gardens  wrought  in  quaint  designs 
And  smelling  sweetly. 

Here  one  may  wander  forth  and  meet 
Skippers  of  eighty  years  whose  feet 
Find  youth  yet  in  the  paven  street; 

And  if  one  hunger 
For  yarns  of  wrecks  and  water  lore, 
Pass  the  tobacco  round  once  more, 
And  hear  what  happened  long  before, 

When  he  was  younger. 

Enchanting  tales  of  wind  and  wave, 
Witty,  pathetic,  gay  and  grave, — 
One  listens  in  the  merman's  cave 

Enraptured,  breathless, 
While  from  the  gray,  bewhiskered  lips 
Come  stories  of  the  sea  and  ships; 
The  careful  skipper  never  skips 

The  legends  deathless. 


Then  out  again,  and  let  us  go 
Where  fresh  and  cool  the  breezes  blow 
Over  the  dunes  of  Pocomo, 
Where  bird  and  berry 


52  NEW   ENGLAND 

Conspire  to  lure  us  on  until, 
Over  the  gently  sloping  hill, 
We  see  Wauwinet,  white  and  still 
And  peaceful  very. 

Here  is  the  ending  of  the  quest; 
Here,  on  this  Island  of  the  Blest, 
Is  found  at  last  the  Port  of  Rest, — 

Remote,  romantic: 
A  land-flower  broken  from  the  stem, 
And  few  indeed  there  be  of  them 
Fitted  so  perfectly  to  gem 

The  blue  Atlantic. 

Dreamy,  delicious,  drowsy,  dull, — 

A  poppy-island  beautiful; 

And  there  are  poppies  here  to  cull 

Until  the  plunder 

Provokes  the  soul  to  sleep  and  dream 
Amid  the  glamour  and  the  gleam, 
And  makes  the  world  about  us  seem 

A  world  of  wonder  ! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 

With  a  Nantucket  Shell        <^>    -^>    <o    <^> 

(Nantucket) 

T  SEND  thee  a  shell  from  the  ocean  beach; 
•*•     But  listen  thou  well,  for  my  shell  hath  speech. 

Hold  to  thine  ear, 

And  plain  thou'lt  hear 


NANTUCKET  53 

Tales  of  ships 

That  were  lost  in  the  rips, 

Or  that  sunk  on  shoals 

Where  the  bell-buoy  tolls, 
And  ever  and  ever  its  iron  tongue  rolls 
In  a  ceaseless  lament  for  the  poor  lost  souls. 

And  a  song  of  the  sea 

Has  my  shell  for  thee; 

The  melody  in  it 

Was  hummed  at  Wauwinet, 

And  caught  at  Coatue 

By  the  gull  that  flew 
Outside  to  the  ship  with  its  perishing  crew. 

But  the  white  wings  wave 

Where  none  may  save, 
And  there's  never  a  stone  to  mark  a  grave. 

See,  its  sad  heart  bleeds 

For  the  sailors'  needs; 

But  it  bleeds  again 

For  more  mortal  pain, 

More  sorrow  and  woe, 

Than  is  theirs  who  go 
With  shuddering  eyes  and  whitening  lips 
Down  in  the  sea  on  their  shattered  ships. 

Thou  fearest  the  sea  ? 

And  a  tryant  is  he, — 

A  tryant  as  cruel  as  tyrant  may  be; 


54  NEW   ENGLAND 

But  though  winds  fierce  blow, 
And  the  rocks  lie  low, 
And  the  coast  be  lee, 
This  I  say  to  thee: 
Of  Christian  souls  more  have  been  wrecked  on 

shore 
Than  ever  were  lost  at  sea  ! 

Charles  Henry  Webb. 

The  Path  to  Sankoty     <^>    <^>    *Q>    ^,    <^ 

(Nantucket  Island) 

TT  winds  along  the  headlands 

Above  the  open  sea  — 
The  lonely  moorland  footpath 
That  leads  to  Sankoty. 

The  crooning  sea  spreads  sailless 
And  gray  to  the  world's  rim, 
Where  hang  the  reeking  fog-banks 
Primordial  and  dim. 

There  fret  the  ceaseless  currents, 
And  the  eternal  tide 
Chafes  over  hidden  shallows 
Where  the  white  horses  ride. 

The  wistful,  fragrant  moorlands 
Whose  smile  bids  panic  cease, 


NANTUCKET   ISLAND  55 

Lie  treeless  and  cloud-shadowed 
In  grave  and  lonely  peace. 

Across  their  flowering  bosom, 
From  the  far  end  of  day 
Blow  clean  the  great  soft  moor-winds 
All  sweet  with  rose  and  bay. 

A  world  as  large  and  simple 
As  first  emerged  for  man, 
Cleared  for  the  human  drama, 
Before  the  play  began. 

O  well  the  soul  must  treasure 
The  calm  that  sets  it  free — 
The  vast  and  tender  skyline, 
The  sea-turn's  wizardry, 

Solace  of  swaying  grasses, 
The  friendship  of  sweet-fern — 
And  in  the  world's  confusion 
Remembering,  must  yearn 

To  tread  the  moorland  footpath 
That  leads  to  Sankoty, 
Hearing  the  field-larks  shrilling 
Beside  the  sailless  sea. 

Bliss  Carman. 


56  NEW    ENGLAND 

First  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims      <^    <^>     <^ 

(Cape  Cod) 

1P\AYS  pass,  winds  veer,  and  favoring  skies 
*-'  Change  like  the  face  of  fortune;  storms  arise; 
Safely,  but  not  within  her  port  desired, 

The  good  ship  lies. 
Where  the  long  sandy  Cape 
Bends  and  embraces  round, 
As  with  a  lover's  arm,  the  sheltered  sea, 

A  haven  she  hath  found 
From  adverse  gales  and  boisterous  billows  free. 

Now  strike  your  sails, 
Ye  toilworn  mariners,  and  take  your  rest 
Long  as  the  fierce  northwest 

In  that  wild  fit  prevails, 
Tossing  the  waves  uptorn  with  frantic  sway. 
Keep  ye  within  the  bay, 

Contented  to  delay 

Your  course  till  the  elemental  madness  cease, 
And  heaven  and  ocean  are  again  at  peace. 

How  gladly  there, 
Sick  of  the  uncomfortable  ocean, 
The  impatient  passengers  approach  the  shore; 
Escaping  from  the  sense  of  endless  motion, 
To  feel  firm  earth  beneath  their  feet  once  more, 


CAPE   COD  57 

To  breathe  again  the  air 
With  taint  of  bilge  and  cordage  undefiled, 
And  drink  of  living  springs,  if  there  they  may, 
And  with  fresh  fruits  and  wholesome  food  repair 
Their  spirits,  weary  of  the  watery  way. 

And  oh  !  how  beautiful 
The  things  of  earth  appear 
To  eyes  that  far  and  near 
For  many  a  week  have  seen 
Only  the  circle  of  the  restless  sea! 

With  what  a  fresh  delight 
They  gaze  again  on  fields  and  forests  green, 

Hovel,  or  whatsoe'er 

May  bear  the  trace  of  man's  industrious  hand; 
How  grateful  to  their  sight 
The  shore  of  shelving  sand 
As  the  light  boat  moves  joyfully  to  land  ! 

Woods  they  beheld,  and  huts,  and  piles  of  wood, 

And  many  a  trace  of  toil, 
But  not  green  fields  or  pastures.     'Twas  a  land 

Of  pines  and  sand; 

Dark  pines,  that  from  the  loose  and  sparkling  soil 

Rose  in  their  strength  aspiring:  far  and  wide 

They  sent  their  searching  roots  on  every  side, 

And  thus,  by  depth  and  long  extension,  found 

Firm  hold  and  grasp  within  that  treacherous 

ground: 


58  NEW   ENGLAND 

So  had  they  risen  and  flourished;  till  the  earth, 

Unstable  as  its  neighboring  ocean  there, 
Like  an  unnatural  mother,  heaped  around 
Their  trunks  its  wavy  furrows  white  and  high; 
And  stifled  thus  the  living  things  it  bore. 
Half  buried  thus  they  stand, 
Their  summits  sere  and  dry, 
Marking,  like  monuments,  the  funeral  mound; 
As  when  the  masts  of  some  tall  vessel  show 
Where,  on  the  fatal  shoals,  the  wreck  lies  whelmed 
below. 

Robert  Southey. 


A  Cape  Cod  Native       <^>    *o    <^x    <^>    <^> 

(Cape  Cod) 

A  FTER  an  easterly  storm  in  the  spring,  this 
*"*•  beach  is  sometimes  strewn  with  eastern 
wood  from  one  end  to  the  other,  which,  as  it 
belongs  to  him  who  saves  it,  and  the  Cape  is 
nearly  destitute  of  wood,  is  a  godsend  to  the 
inhabitants.  We  soon  met  one  of  these  wreckers, 
—  a  regular  Cape  Cod  man,  with  whom  we  par- 
leyed, with  a  bleached  and  weather-beaten  face, 
within  whose  wrinkles  I  distinguished  no  particu- 
lar feature.  It  was  like  an  old  sail  endowed  with 
life,  —  a  hanging-cliff  of  weather-beaten  flesh,  — 
like  one  of  the  clay  boulders  which  occurred  in  that 


SCITUATE  59 

sand-bank.  He  had  on  a  hat  which  had  seen  salt 
water,  and  a  coat  of  many  pieces  and  colors, 
though  it  was  mainly  the  color  of  the  beach,  as 
if  it  had  been  sanded.  His  variegated  back  — 
for  his  coat  had  many  patches,  even  between  the 
shoulders  —  was  a  rich  study  to  us  when  we  had 
passed  him  and  looked  around.  It  might  have 
been  dishonorable  for  him  to  have  so  many  scars 
behind,  it  is  true,  if  he  had  not  had  many  more 
and  more  serious  ones  in  front.  He  looked  as  if 
he  sometimes  saw  a  doughnut,  but  never  de- 
scended to  comfort,  too  grave  to  laugh,  too  tough 
to  cry;  as  indifferent  as  a  clam,  —  like  a  sea- 
clam  with  hat  on  and  legs,  that  was  out  walk- 
ing the  strand.  He  may  have  been  one  of  the 
Pilgrims,  —  Peregrine  White,  at  least,  —  who  has 
kept  on  the  back  side  of  the  Cape,  and  let  the 
centuries  go  by. 

Henry  David  Thoreau. 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket        -s>    ^y    ^>    "Q> 

(Scituate) 

"LJOW  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my 
•*•  •*•  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild- 
wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  myirifancy  knew; — 


60  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which 

stood  by  it, 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract 

fell; 

The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the 

well. 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure; 
For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the 

field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were 

glowing ! 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell; 

Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the 

well; 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive 

it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips  ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to 

leave  it,  . 
Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 


NANTASKET  6 1 

And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the 

well; 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

Samuel  Woodworth. 

Agassiz        -o>     <o     <o     *o     *c>     *^>     ^> 

(Nantasket) 

T  STAND  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

•*•     And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 

Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 

And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 

The  rocks,  the  seaweed  on  the  ocean  floor, 

The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 

Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me; 

Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come  no 

more  ? 
Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  common 

men 

Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding  ?  Why,  when  thou  hadst  read 
Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then  ,   - 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?    Why  shouldst  thou  be 

dead  ? 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


62  NEW    ENGLAND 

The  Harbor         <^     -^>     <^>     ^>     <^x     ^> 

(Boston) 

CCATTERED  within  the  peaceful  bay 

^  Many  a  fair  isle  and  islet  lay, 

And  rocks  and  banks  which  threatened  there 

No  peril  to  the  mariner. 
The  shores  which  bent  around  were  gay 
With  maizals,  and  with  pastures  green, 
And  rails  and  hedge-row  trees  between, 

And  fields  for  harvest  white, 
And  dwellings  sprinkled  up  and  down; 
And  round  about  the  clustered  town, 

Which  rose  in  sunshine  bright, 
Was  many  a  sheltered  garden  spot, 
And  many  a  sunny  orchard  plot, 

And  bowers  which  might  invite 
The  studious  man  to  take  his  seat 
Within  their  quiet,  cool  retreat, 

When  noon  was  at  its  height. 
No  heart  that  was  at  ease,  I  ween, 
Could  gaze  on  that  surrounding  scene 

Without  a  calm  delight. 

Robert  Southey. 

The  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor  <^>     <^> 

(Boston) 

"  pRAISE  ye  the  Lord  !"  The  psalm  to-day 

•*•  Still  rises  on  our  ears, 
Borne  from  the  hills  of  Boston  Bay 

Through  five  times  fifty  years, 


BOSTON  63 

When  Winthrop's  fleet  from  Yarmouth  crept 

Out  to  the  open  main, 
And  through  the  widening  waters  swept, 
In  April  sun  and  rain. 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

The  leader  shouted,  "pray;" 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships 
As  faded  Yarmouth  Bay. 

They  passed  the  Stilly  Isles  that  day, 

And  May-days  came,  and  June, 
And  thrice  upon  the  ocean  lay 

The  full  orb  of  the  moon. 
And  as  that  day,  on  Yarmouth  Bay, 

Ere  England  sunk  from  view, 
While  yet  the  rippling  Solent  lay 
In  April  skies  of  blue, 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

Each  morn  was  shouted,  "pray;" 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
As  first  in  Yarmouth  Bay; 

Blew  warm  the  breeze  o'er  Western  seas, 

Through  Maytime  morns,  and  June, 
Till  hailed  these  souls  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 

Low  'neath  the  summer  moon; 
And  as  Cape  Ann  arose  to  view, 

And  Norman's  Woe  they  passed, 
The  wood-doves  came  the  white  mists  through, 

And  circled  round  each  mast. 


64  NEW   ENGLAND 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 
Then  called  the  leader,  "pray;" 

And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
As  first  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

Above  the  sea  the  hill-tops  fair — 

God's  towers — began  to  rise, 
And  odors  rare  breathe  through  the  air, 

Like  balms  of  Paradise. 
Through  burning  skies  the  ospreys  flew, 

And  near  the  pine-cooled  shores 
Danced  airy  boat  and  thin  canoe, 
To  flash  of  sunlit  oars. 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

The  leader  shouted,  "pray  !" 
Then  prayer  arose,  and  all  the  ships 
Sailed  into  Boston  Bay. 

The  white  wings  folded,  anchors  down, 

The  sea-worn  fleet  in  line, 
Fair  rose  the  hills  where  Boston  town 

Should  rise  from  clouds  of  pine; 
Fair  was  the  harbor,  summit-walled, 

And  placid  lay  the  sea. 
"Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  the  leader  called; 
"Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  spake  he. 

"  Give  thanks  to  God  with  fervent  lips, 

Give  thanks  to  God  to-day," 
The  anthem  rose  from  all  the  ships, 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 


BOSTON  65 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  !"     Primeval  woods 

First  heard  the  ancient  song, 
And  summer  hills  and  solitudes 

The  echoes  rolled  along. 
The  Red  Cross  flag  of  England  blew 

Above  the  fleet  that  day, 
While  Shawmut's  triple  peaks  in  view 
In  amber  hazes  lay. 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day." 
The  anthem  rose  from  all  the  ships 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

The  Arabella  leads  the  song — 
The  Mayflower  sings  below, 
That  erst  the  Pilgrims  bore  along 

The  Plymouth  reefs  of  snow. 
Oh !  never  be  that  psalm  forgot 

That  rose  o'er  Boston  Bay, 
When  Winthrop  sang,  and  Endicott, 
And  Saltonstall,  that  day: 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day;" 
And  praise  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
Like  prayers  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

That  psalm  our  fathers  sang  we  sing, 

That  psalm  of  peace  and  wars, 
While  o'er  our  heads  unfolds  its  wing 

The  flag  of  forty  stars. 


66  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  while  the  nation  finds  a  tongue 

For  nobler  gifts  to  pray, 
'Twill  ever  sing  the  song  they  sung 
That  first  Thanksgiving  Day: 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day;" 
So  rose  the  song  from  all  the  ships, 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

Our  fathers'  prayers  have  changed  to  psalms, 

As  David's  treasures  old 
Turned,  on  the  Temple's  giant  arms, 

To  lily- work  of  gold. 
Ho  !  vanished  ships  from  Yarmouth's  tide, 

Ho !  ships  of  Boston  Bay, 
Your  prayers  have  crossed  the  centuries  wide 
To  this  Thanksgiving  Day ! 

We  pray  to  God  with  fervent  lips, 

We  praise  the  Lord  to-day, 
As  prayers  arose  from  Yarmouth  ships, 
But  psalms  from  Boston  Bay. 

Hezekiah  Butter-worth. 

A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet     <^     <^>     *^> 

Boston,  October,  1746. 
MR.  THOMAS  PRINCE  loquitur. 

A   FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 
•**•      Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 
The  signal:  "Steer  southwest." 


BOSTON  67 

For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 
Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 

To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 
Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly:  "Let  us  pray  ! 

"O  Lord  !  we  would  not  advise; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 


68  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried:  "Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord!" 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale. 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these  ! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line; 
They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord  !  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BOSTON  69 

Boston  Common.  —  Three  Pictures     <^x     <^> 

(Boston) 

1630 

A  LL  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern, 
*•"*•    And  straggling  clumps  of  tangled  trees, 
With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that  turn, 

Bent  eastward  by  the  mastering  breeze, — 
With  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  fill 

A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 
And  hark!  the  trodden  branches  crack; 

A  crow  flaps  off  with  startled  scream; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back ; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream; 
Leaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool; — 
Here  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 

The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull  ! 

1774 

The  streets  are  thronged  with  trampling  feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  "rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come: 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum, 


O  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets  shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shall  stain  " 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 


1869 

Around  the  green,  in  morning  light, 

The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 
And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays; 
They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of  white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hillside  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth!  no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless  wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings !  • 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


BOSTON  /I 

From  An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation  *z>    <^> 

(.Boston) 

(Written  after  seeing  at  Boston  the  statue  of  Robert  Gould  Shaw, 
killed  while  storming  Fort  Wagner,  July  18,  1863,  at  the  head  of  the 
first  enlisted  Negro  Regiment,  the  Fifty-fourth  Massachusetts.) 


"DEFORE  the  living  bronze  Saint-Gaudens  made 

•^  Most  fit  to  thrill  the  passer's  heart  with  awe, 

And  set  it  here  in  the  city's  talk  and  trade 

To  the  good  memory  of  Robert  Shaw, 

This  bright  March  morn  I  stand 

And  hear  the  distant  spring  come  up  the  land; 

Knowing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  unheard 

Of  this  boy  soldier  and  his  negro  band, 

For  all  their  gaze  is  fixed  so  stern  ahead, 

For  all  the  fatal  rhythm  of  their  tread. 

The  land  they  died  to  save  from  death  and  shame 

Trembles  and  waits,  hearing  the  spring's  great 

name, 
And  by  her   pangs   these    resolute   ghosts   are 

stirred. 

n 

Through  street  and  mall  the  tides  of  people  go 
Heedless;  the  trees  upon  the  Common  show 
No  hint  of  green;  but  to  my  listening  heart 
The  still  earth  doth  impart 
Assurance  of  her  jubilant  emprise, 


72  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  it  is  clear  to  my  long-searching  eyes 

That  love  at  last  has  might  upon  the  skies. 

The  ice  is  runneled  on  the  little  pond; 

A  telltale  patter  drips  from  off  the  trees; 

The  air  is  touched  with  southland  spiceries, 

As  if  but  yesterday  it  tossed  the  frond 

Of  pendent  mosses  where  the  live  oaks  grow 

Beyond  Virginia  and  the  Carolines, 

Or  had  its  will  among  the  fruits  and  vines 

Of  aromatic  isles  asleep  beyond 

Florida  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 


ra 

Soon  shall  the  Cape  Ann  children  laugh  in 

glee, 

Spying  the  arbutus,  spring's  dear  recluse; 
Hill  lads  at  dawn  shall  hearken  the  wild  goose 
Go  honking  northward  over  Tennessee; 
West  from  Oswego  to  Sault  Saint-Marie, 
And  on  to  where  the  Pictured  Rocks  are  hung, 
And  yonder  where,  gigantic,  wilful,  young, 
Chicago  sitteth  at  the  northwest  gates, 
With  restless  violent  hands  and  casual  tongue 
Molding  her  mighty  fates, 
The  Lakes  shall  robe  them  in  ethereal  sheen; 
And,  like  a  larger  sea,  the  vital  green 
Of  springing  wheat  shall  vastly  be  outflung 
Over  Dakota  and  the  prairie  states. 


BOSTON  73 

By  desert  people  immemorial 

On  Arizonian  mesas  shall  be  done 

Dim  rites  to  the  thunder  and  the  sun; 

Nor  shall  the  primal  gods  lack  sacrifice 

More  splendid,  when  the  white  Sierras  call. 

Unto  the  Rockies  straightway  to  arise 

And  dance  before  the  unveiled  ark  of  the  year, 

Clashing  their  windy  cedars  as  for  shawms, 

Unrolling  rivers  clear 

For  nutter  of  broad  phylacteries; 

While  Shasta  signals  to  Alaskan  seas 

That  watch  old    sluggish   glaciers  downward 

creep 

To  fling  their  icebergs  thundering  from  the  steep 
And  Mariposa  through  the  purple  calms 
Gazes  at  far  Hawaii  crowned  with  palms 
Where  East  and  West  are  met, — 
A  rich  seal  on  the  ocean's  bosom  set 
To  say  that  East  and  West  are  twain, 
With  different  loss  and  gain : 
The  Lord  hath  sundered  them,  let  them  be 

sundered  yet. 


rv 


Alas!  what  sounds  are  these  that  come 
Sullenly  over  the  Pacific  seas, — 
Sounds  of  ignoble  battle,  striking  dumb 
The  season's  half-awakened  ecstasies? 


74  NEW   ENGLAND 

Must  I  be  humble,  then, 

Now  when  my  heart  hath  need  of  pride? 

Wild  love  falls  on  me  from  these  sculptured 

men; 

By  loving  much  the  land  for  which  they  died 
I  would  be  justified. 
My  spirit  was  away  on  pinions  wide 
To    soothe    in    praise    of    her   its    passionate 

mood 

And  ease  it  of  its  ache  of  gratitude. 
Too  sorely  heavy  is  the  debt  they  lay 
On  me  and  the  companions  of  my  day. 
I  would  remember  now 

My  country's  godliness,  make  sweet  her  name. 
Alas!  what  shade  art  thou 
Of  sorrow  or  of  blame 
Liftest  the  lyric  leafage  from  her  brow, 
And  pointest  a  slow  finger  at  her  shame? 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 


The  Dorchester  Giant  <^y     *o    *^x    o 

(Boston) 

'"PHERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 
•*•      A  mighty  one  was  he: 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold; 
And  he  had  children  three. 


BOSTON  75 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 
And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then; 
They  did  not  talk  of  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three 

And  fastened  them  in  the  pen; 

The  children  roared;  quoth  the  giant,  "Be  still!" 

And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 

Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed  with 

plums, 

As  big  as  the  State  House  dome; 
Quoth  he,  "There's  something  for  you  to  eat; 
So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection  treat, 
And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 
And  whittled  the  boughs  away; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout; 
Said  he,  "You're  in  and  you  can't  get  out, 
Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 
As  he  strode  the  fields  along; 
'Tis  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 
When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 


7  6  NEW   ENGLAND 

But  whether  the  story's  true  or  not, 

It  is  not  for  me  to  show; 

There  is  many  a  thing  that's  twice  as  queer, 

In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 

What  are  those  loved  ones  doing  now, 

The  wife  and  children  sad? 

Oh,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 

Screaming  and  throwing  their  pudding  about, 

Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 
They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw, 
They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 
For  ages  have  floated  by; 
The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow  bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  stone, 
But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You'll  ask  me  out  to  ride, 

The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 

And  you  may  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


CAMBRIDGE  77 


From  The  Washington  Elm 

{Cambridge) 


Musing  beneath  the  legendary  tree, 

The  years  between  furl  off:  I  seem  to  see 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  stirred  foliage  through, 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and  blue, 

And  weave  prophetic  aureoles  round  the  head 

That  shines  our  beacon  now  nor  darkens  with  the 

dead. 

O  man  of  silent  mood, 
A  stranger  among  strangers  then, 
How  art  thou  since  renowned  the  Great,  the  Good, 
Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  the  homes  of  men  ! 
The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise  and  blame, 
Blow  many  names  out:  they  but  fan  to  flame 
The  self-renewing  splendors  of  thy  fame. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


From  An  Indian  Summer  Reverie       <z>     <z> 

(The  Charles  River) 

"D  ELOW,  the  Charles— a  stripe  of  nether  sky, 
-*-^   Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 
Whose  gaps  the  misplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying  by, 
Now   flickering   golden    through   a   woodland 
screen, 


78  NEW   ENGLAND 

Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  beyond, 
A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond — 
Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and 
green. 

Dear  marshes  !  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare; 
Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 
On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  won- 
ders rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 
O  'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering 

feet: 
Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek 

unseen, 

There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet; 
And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms 

crowd, 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 

All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 
Whispers  and  leans   the   breeze-entangling 
sedge; 


THE   CHARLES    RIVER  79 

Through  emerald  glooms  the  lingering  waters 

slide, 
Or,    sometimes   wavering,   throw   back    the 

sun, 

And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  current  seem  to 
glide. 

In  Summer  'tis  a  blithesome  sight  to  see, 
As,  step  by  step,  with  measured  swing,  they 

pass, 

The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading  to  the  knee, 
Their  sharp  scythes  panting  through  the  thick- 
set grass; 
Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's  shade  in  a 

ring, 

Their  nooning  take,  while  one  begins  to  sing, 
A  stave  that  droops  and  dies  'neath  the  close  sky 
of  brass. 

Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid  quaver  stops 

Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous 

brink, 

And  'twixt  the  windrows  most  demurely  drops, 
A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 
For  his  brown  mate  and  fledglings  six  besides, 
And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer  mid  his 
crops. 


8O  NEW    ENGLAND 

Another  change  subdues  them  in  the  Fall, 
But  saddens  not;  they  still  show  merrier  tints, 

Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover  all; 
When  the  first  sunshine  through   their  dew- 
drops  glints, 
Look   how   the   yellow  clearness,   streamed 

across, 

Redeems  with  rarer  hues  the  season's  loss, 
As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and  left  their 
rosy  prints. 

Or  come  when  sunset  gives  its  freshened  zest, 
Lean  o'er  the  bridge  and  let  the  ruddy  thrill, 
While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down  the  hazy 

west, 

Glow  opposite; — the  marshes  drink  their  fill 
And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then  slowly 

fade 
Through  pink  to  brown,  as  eastward  moves 

the  shade, 

Lengthening   with   stealthy  creep,  of   Simond's 
darkening  hill. 

Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly  shuts, 
Ere   through  the  first  dry  snow  the  runner 

grates, 
And  the  loath  cart-wheel  screams  in  slippery 

ruts, 
While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 


THE   CHARLES   RIVER  8 1 

Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  beside  the  fire, 
And  until  bedtime  plays  with  his  desire, 
Twenty  times  putting  on  and  off  his  new-bought 
skates; — 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks  shine 

bright 

With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacherous  and  frail, 
By  the  frost's  clinking  hammers  forged  at 

night, 

'Gainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  prevail, 
Giving  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 
When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall  melt  away, 
And  states  shall  move  free-limbed,  loosed  from 
war's  cramping  mail. 

And  now  those  waterfalls  the  ebbing  river 
Twice  every  day  creates  on  either  side 

Tinkle,  as  through  their  fresh-sparred  grots 

they  shiver 

In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun  denied; 
High  flaps  in  sparkling  blue  the  far-heard 

crow, 

The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below, 
Suddenly  drops  the  gull  and  breaks  the  glassy  tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn  by  vying  seasons  three, 
Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring; 

This  glory  seems  to  rest  immovably, — 
The  others  were  too  fleet  and  vanishing; 


82  NEW   ENGLAND 

When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest  flow, 

O  'er  marsh  and  stream  one  breathless  trance 

of  snow 

With  brooding  fullness  awes  and  hushes  every- 
thing. 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the  bleak 

wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day; 

Gropes  to  the  sea  the  river  dumb  and  blind; 
The  brown  ricks,  snow-thatched  by  the  storm 

in  play, 

Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er  their  lee, 
White  crests  as  of  some  just  enchanted  sea, 
Checked  in  their  maddest  leap  and  hanging  poised 
midway. 

But  when  the  eastern  blow,  with  rain  aslant, 

From  mid-sea's  prairies  green  and  rolling  plains 

Drives  in    his    wallowing   herds  of   billows 

gaunt, 

And  the  roused  Charles  remembers  in  his  veins 
Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his  gyves  of 

frost, 

That  tyrannous  silence  on  the  shores  is  tost 
In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  desolation  reigns. 


James  Russell  Lowell. 


LYNN  83 

The  Bells  of  Lynn         o    <^>    <^>    <^>    *^> 

Heard  at  Nahant 
(Lynn) 

O  CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun  !    O  Bells  of 
Lynn  ! 
0  requiem  of  the  dying  day  !    O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud-cathedral 

wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

Borne  on  the  evening-wind  across  the  crimson 

twilight, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the 

headland, 
Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

Over  the  shining    sands    the  wandering    cattle 

homeward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his  flaming 

signal 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells 

of  Lynn  ! 


84  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges, 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  0  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  incan- 

tations, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 
And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 

Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery        <^y    *o 

(Marblehead) 


the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the 
summer  wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife 

and  children  eight, 

Dropping  down  the  riverjiarbor  in  the  shallop 
"Watch  and  Wait" 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer- 

morn, 
With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their 

fruits  first-born, 
And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands  amid  a  sea 

of  corn. 


MARBLEHEAD  85 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the  tided 

creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and 

walnuts  green; — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never 

seen. 


Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty 

led, 
And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the 

living  bread 
To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the  rocks  of 

Marblehead. 


All  day  they  sailed:  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land- 
breeze  died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights 
denied, 

And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophe- 
sied ! 


Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were 

rock  and  wood  and  sand; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder 

in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and 

what  was  land. 


86  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled 

round  him,  weeping  sore: 
"Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ  is  walking 

on  before 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall 

be  no  more. " 


All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain 

drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror 

far  and  wide; 
And  the  thunder  and   the  whirlwind   together 

smote  the  tide. 


There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail 

and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp 

and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Avery's 

prayer. 


From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild 

waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as 

it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was 

cast. 


MARBLEHEAD  8/ 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause 
of  wave  and  wind: 

"All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger 
just  behind; 

Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ran- 
somed find!" 


The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last 

request; 
As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet 

hymn  upward  pressed, 
And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its 

rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks 

'  of  Marblehead; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of 

prayer  were  read; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living 

mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from 

the  squall, 
With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale 

recall, 
When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the 

Rock  of  Avery's  Fall ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


88  NEW   ENGLAND 


O1 


Skipper  Ireson's  Ride    ^    <o    <^>    ^>    <^y 

(Marblehead) 

\F  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a- droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 
"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 


MARBLEHEAD  89 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang: 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  ! — He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck! 
"Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be  ! 


90  NEW   ENGLAND 

What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away? — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea- worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head  and  fist  and  hat  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain: 
"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 


MARBLEHEAD  91 

"Hear  me,  neighbors  !"  at  last  he  cried, — 
"What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead! 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 

Said,  "God  has  touched  him! — why  should 

we?" 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  !  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


92  NEW   ENGLAND 

From  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms         <^> 

(Salem) 

PROLOGUE 

"[DELUSIONS  of  the  days  that  once  have  been, 
•^  Witchcraft  and  wonders  of  the  world  unseen, 
Phantoms  of  air,  and  necromantic  arts 
That  crushed  the  weak  and  awed  the  stoutest 

hearts, — 

These  are  our  theme  to-night;  and  vaguely  here, 
Through  the  dim  mists  that  crowd  the  atmos- 
phere 

We  draw  the  outlines  of  weird  figures  cast 
In  shadow  on  the  background  of  the  Past. 

Who  would  believe  that  in  the  quiet  town 
Of  Salem,  and  amid  the  woods  that  crown 
The  neighboring  hillsides,  and  the  sunny  farms 
That  fold  it  safe  in  their  paternal  arms, — 
Who  would  believe  that  in  those  peaceful  streets, 
Where  the  great  elms  shut  out  the  summer  heats, 
Where  quiet  reigns,  and  breathes  through  brain 

and  breast 

The  benediction  of  unbroken  rest, — 
Who  would  believe  such  deeds  could  find  a  place 
As  these  whose  tragic  history  we  retrace  ? 

'Twas  but  a  village  then :  the  goodman  plowed 
His  ample  acres  under  sun  or  cloud; 
The  goodwife  at  her  doorstep  sat  and  spun, 
And  gossiped  with  her  neighbors  in  the  sun; 


SALEM  93 

The  only  men  of  dignity  and  state 
Were  then  the  Minister  and  the  Magistrate, 
Who  ruled  their  little  realm  with  iron  rod, 
Less  in  the  love  than  in  the  fear  of  God; 
And  who  believed  devoutly  in  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness,  working  in  this  world  of  ours, 
In  spells  of  Witchcraft,  incantations  dread, 
And  shrouded  apparitions  of  the  dead. 

Upon  this  simple  folk  "with  fire  and  flame," 
Saith  the  old  Chronicle,  "the  Devil  came; 
Scattering  his  firebrands  and  his  poisonous  darts, 
To  set  on  fire  of  Hell  all  tongues  and  hearts  ! 
And  'tis  no  wonder;  for,  with  all  his  host, 
There  most  he  rages  where  he  hateth  most, 
And  is  most  hated;  so  on  us  he  brings 
All  these  stupendous  and  portentous  things  !  " 

Something  of  this  our  scene  to-night  will  show; 
And  ye  who  listen  to  the  Tale  of  Woe, 
Be  not  too  swift  in  casting  the  first  stone, 
Nor  think  New  England  bears  the  guilt  alone. 
This  sudden  burst  of  wickedness  and  crime 
Was  but  the  common  madness  of  the  time, 
When  in  all  lands,  that  lie  within  the  sound 
Of  Sabbath  bells,  a  Witch  was  burned  or  drowned. 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


94  NEW   ENGLAND 

Salem      *o    *^>    ^>    «o    <^x    -o>    <^>    <^> 

C  WIFT  fly  the  years.    Too  swift,  alas  ! 
*•-*  A  full  half-century  has  flown, 
Since,  through  these  gardens  fair  and  pastures 
lone 

And  down  the  busy  street, 
Or  'neath  the  elms  whose  shadows  soft  are  thrown 

Upon  the  common's  trampled  grass, 

Pattered  my  childish  feet. 
Gone  are  the  happy  games  we  played  as  boys  ! 
Gone  the  glad  shouts,  the  free  and  careless  joys, 
The  fights,  the  feuds,  the  friendships  that  we  had, 
And  all  the  trivial  things  that  had  the  power, 
When  Youth  was  in  its  early  flower, 

To  make  us  sad  or  glad  ! 
Gone  the  familiar  faces  that  we  knew, 
Silent  the  voices  that  once  thrilled  us  through, 

And  ghosts  are  everywhere  ! 
They  peer  from  every  window-pane, 
From  every  alley,  street,  and  lane 

They  whisper  on  the  air. 
They  haunt  the  meadows  green  and  wide, 
The  garden- walk,  the  river-side, 
The  beating  mill  adust  with  meal, 
The  rope- walk  with  its  whirring  wheel, 
The  elm  grove  on  the  sunny  ridge, 
The  rattling  draw,  the  echoing  bridge; 
The  lake  on  which  we  used  to  float 
What  time  the  blue  jay  screamed  his  note, 


SALEM  95 

The  voiceful  pines  that  ceaselessly 
Breathed  back  their  answer  to  the  sea, 
The  school-house,  where  we  learned  to  spell, 
The  church,  the  solemn-sounding  bell, — 

All,  all,  are  full  of  them. 
Where'er  we  turn,  howe'er  we  go, 

Ever  we  hear  their  voices  dim 

That  sing  to  us  as  in  a  dream 

The  song  of  "Long  ago." 

Ah  me,  how  many  an  autumn  day 
We  watched  with  palpitating  breast 

Some  stately  ship,  from  India  or  Cathay, 
Laden  with  spicy  odors  from  the  East, 

Come  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 
Unto  our  youthful  hearts  elate 
What  wealth  beside  their  real  freight 
Of  rich  material  things  they  bore  ! 
Ours  were  Arabian  cargoes,  fair, 
Mysterious,  exquisite,  and  rare; 
From  far  romantic  lands  built  out  of  air 

On  an  ideal  shore 
Sent  by  Aladdin,  Camaralzaman, 
Morgiana,  or  Badoura,  or  the  Khan. 

Treasures  of  Sindbad,  vague  and  wondrous  things 

Beyond  the  reach  of  aught  but  Youth's  imaginings. 

***** 

How  oft  half-fearfully  we  prowled 

Around  those  gabled  houses,  quaint  and  old, 


96  NEW   ENGLAND 

Whose  legends,  grim  and  terrible, 

Of  witch  and  ghost  that  used  in  them  to  dwell, 

Around  the  twilight  fire  were  told; 
While  huddled  close  with  anxious  ear 

We  heard  them,  quivering  with  fear, 
And,  if  the  daylight  half  o'ercame  the  spell, 

'Twas  with  a  lingering  dread 
We  oped  the  door  and  touched  the  stinging  bell 

In  the  dark  shop  that  led, 
For  some  had  fallen  under  time's  disgrace, 

To  meaner  uses  and  a  lower  place. 
But  as  we  heard  it  ring,  our  hearts'  quick  pants 

Almost  were  audible; 

For  with  its  sound  it  seemed  to  rouse  the  dead, 
And  wake  some  ghost  from  out  the  dusky  haunts 

Where  faint  the  daylight  fell. 

Upon  the  sunny  wharves  how  oft 

Within  some  dim  secluded  loft 
We  played,  and  dreamed  the  livelong  day, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  in  play; 
We  cared  not,  let  it  slip  away, 
And  let  the  sandy  hour-glass  run, 
Time  is  so  long,  and  life  so  long 
When  it  has  just  begun. 

William  Wetmore  Story. 


BEVERLY  97 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes  <^>    *£>    ^    ^>    "O 

(Beverly) 

"DOOR  lone  Hannah, 

*     Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Faded,  wrinkled, 

Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree: 

Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse 

To  her  whisper, 

"Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news  ?  " 
Oh,  her  heart's  adrift,  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  ! 

Night  and  morning, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  wooes: 

Hale  and  clever, 

For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so  ! 

For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 


98  NEW   ENGLAND 

May  is  passing: 
Mid  the  apple  boughs  a  pigeon  cooes. 

Hannah  shudders, 

For  the  mild  southwester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped: 

Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

* 

"Pis  November, 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely,  "Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben  ?  " 

Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views. 

Twenty  seasons: — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 

Hopeless,  faithful, 

Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


BEVERLY  99 

Skipper  Ben    <^y    -Q>    <^x    ^>    ^>    <^>    ^> 

(Beverly) 

SAILING  away  ! 
Losing  the  breath  of  the  shores  in  May, 
Dropping  down  from  the  beautiful  bay, 
Over  the  sea-slope  vast  and  gray  ! 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  with  a  mist  are  blind; 
For  a  vision  comes  on  the  rising  wind, 
Of  a  gentle  face,  that  he  leaves  behind, 
And  a  heart  that  throbs  through  the  fog-bank  dim, 
Thinking  of  him. 

Far  into  night 

He  watches  the  gleam  of  the  lessening  light 
Fixed  on  the  dangerous  island  height, 
That  bars  the  harbor  he  loves  from  sight. 
And  he  wishes,  at  dawn,  he  could  tell  the  tale 
Of  how  they  had  weathered  the  southwest  gale, 
To  brighten  the  cheek  that  had  grown  so  pale 
With  a  wakeful  night  among  specters  grim, — 

Terrors  for  him. 

Yo-heave-yo  ! 

Here's  the  Bank  where  the  fishermen  go. 
Over  the  schooner's  sides  they  throw 
Tackle  and  bait  to  the  deeps  below. 
And  Skipper  Ben  in  the  water  sees, 
When  its  ripples  curl  to  the  light  land  breeze, 
Something  that  stirs  like  his  apple-trees; 


100  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  two  soft  eyes  that  beneath  them  swim, 
Lifted  to  him. 

Hear  the  wind  roar, 

And  the  rain  through  the  slit  sails  tear  and  pour! 
"Steady  !  we'll  scud  by  the  Cape  Ann  shore, 
Then  hark  to  the  Beverly  bells  once  more  !  " 
And  each  man  worked  with  the  will  of  ten; 
While  up  in  the  rigging,  now  and  then, 
The  lightning  glared  in  the  face  of  Ben, 
Turned  to  the  black  horizon's  rim, 

Scowling  on  him. 

Into  his  brain 

Burned  with  the  iron  of  hopeless  pain, 
Into  thoughts  that  grapple,  and  eyes  that  strain, 
Pierces  the  memory,  cruel  and  vain  ! 
Never  again  shall  he  walk  at  ease, 
Under  his  blossoming  apple-trees, 
That  whisper  and  sway  to  the  sunset  breeze, 
While  the  soft  eyes  float  where  the  sea-gulls  skim, 

Gazing  with  him. 

How  they  went  down 
Never  was  known  in  the  still  old  town. 
Nobody  guessed  how  the  fisherman  brown, 
With  the  look  of  despair  that  was  half  a  frown, 
Faced  his  fate  in  the  furious  night, — 
Faced  the  mad  billows  with  hunger  white, 
Just  within  hail  of  the  beacon-light 


BAKER'S   ISLAND  IOI 

That  shone  on  a  woman  sweet  and  trim, 
Waiting  for  him. 

Beverly  bells, 

Ring  to  the  tide  as  it  ebbs  and  swells  ! 
His  was  the  anguish  a  moment  tells, — 
The  passionate  sorrow  death  quickly  knells. 
But  the  wearing  wash  of  a  lifelong  woe 
Is  left  for  the  desolate  heart  to  know, 
Whose  tides  with  the  dull  years  come  and  go 
Till  hope  drifts  dead  to  its  stagnant  brim, 

Thinking  of  him. 

Litcy  Larcom. 

The  Light-Houses  <^>    <^    <^    <^    <^x    <^> 

(Baker's  Island) 

pale  sisters,  all  alone, 
On  an  island  bleak  and  bare, 
Listening  to  the  breakers'  moan, 

Shivering  in  the  chilly  air; 
Looking  inland  towards  a  hill, 
On  whose  top  one  aged  tree 
Wrestles  with  the  storm-wind's  will, 
Rushing,  wrathful,  from  the  sea. 

Two  dim  ghosts  at  dusk  they  seem, 
Side  by  side,  so  white  and  tall, 

Sending  one  long,  hopeless  gleam 
Down  the  horizon's  darkened  wall. 

Specters,  strayed  from  plank  or  spar, 
With  a  tale  none  lives  to  tell, 


102  NEW   ENGLAND 

Gazing  at  the  town  afar, 

Where  unconscious  widows  dwell. 

Two  white  angels  of  the  sea, 

Guiding  wave- worn  wanderers  home; 
Sentinels  of  hope  they  be, 

Drenched  with  sleet,  and  dashed  with  foam, 
Standing  there  in  loneliness, 

Fireside  joys  for  men  to  keep; 
Through  the  midnight  slumberless 

That  the  quiet  shore  may  sleep. 

Two  bright  eyes  awake  all  night 

To  the  fierce  moods  of  the  sea; 
Eyes  that  only  close  when  light 

Dawns  on  lonely  hill  and  tree. 
O  kind  watchers  !  teach  us,  too, 

Steadfast  courage,  sufferance  long  ! 
Where  an  eye  is  turned  to  you, 

Should  a  human  heart  grow  strong. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus       .  <^x     <^>    <^> 

(Gloucester) 

TT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 
•*•     That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 


GLOUCESTER  103 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  !  " 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 


104  NEW   ENGLAND 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast  !  " 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"O  father !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

0  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea!  " 

"O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hand,  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


GLOUCESTER  105 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  wrhite  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho !  ho !  the  breakers  roared ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 


IO6  NEW    ENGLAND 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  seaweed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Gloucester  Moors   ^>    <^    <^x    *^>    *^> 

(East  Gloucester) 

A    MILE  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
•**•  Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  woods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea, 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  fiee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 
Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 
The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 
Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 


EAST   GLOUCESTER  IO/ 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  gray  moths  sup, 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 

Beach-peas  blossom  late. 

By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove, 

Each  calling  to  his  mate. 

Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go, 

And  the  land-birds  all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo, 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags  grow 

Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 

This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 

We  landsmen  build  upon; 

From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace, 

And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 

Beneath  my  feet  I  feel 

Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip; 

With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upreel 

She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 

Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail, 
The  sun  is  her  masthead  light, 
She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 
Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright. 


108  NEW   ENGLAND 

Now  hid,  now  looming  clear, 
On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 
The  star  fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  veer, 
But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 
As  if  her  port  she  knew. 

God,  dear  God  !    Does  she  know  her  port, 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about  ? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out  ? 

I  watched  when  her  captains  passed: 

She  were  better  captainless. 

Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast, 

And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 

Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold, — 

Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 

And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 

Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see; 

But  they  said,  "Thou  art  not  of  us  !  " 

I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 

And  cried,  "  Give  help  !  "    But  they  said,  "Let 

be: 
Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 
Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 


EAST   GLOUCESTER  1 09 

The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes  through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 

To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 

With  its  swelter  and  its  sin  ! 

Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet, 

And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat  ? 

And  when  will  his  wage  come  in  ? 

Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks, 
Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 
Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 
Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 
There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 
There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 
Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend, 
And  hearts  to  take  and  keep  to  the  end, — 
0  little  sails,  make  haste  ! 

But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 

What  harbor  town  for  thee  ? 

What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 

Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see  ? 

Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 

Stand  singing  brotherly? 

Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 

Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  k>, 

While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men 

Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen, 

And  nothing  to  say  or  do  ? 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 


I  10  NEW   ENGLAND 

From  The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann  <z>    <z>    ^> 

(Cape  Ann) 

\  1  7"HERE  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward, 
•  ^  hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 

The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray 
rocks  of  Cape  Ann; 

On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  pali- 
sade, 

And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moon- 
light overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and 

eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white  with 

breakers  stretching  north, — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged 

capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and 

gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by 
dying  brands, 

Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  mus- 
kets in  their  hands; 

On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison 
haunch  was  shared, 

And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from 
beard  to  beard. 


CAPE   ANN  III 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  —  talked  of 
wizards  Satan-sold; 

Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises, — signs  and  won- 
ders manifold; 

Of  the  specter-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in 
her  shrouds, 

Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of 
morning  clouds; 

Of  the  marvelous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of 

Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer, — blooms  of 

warmer  latitudes; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's 

flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twilight 

of  the  pines  ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky 

tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of 

evil  near; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim 

of  gun; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mold  of 

mortals  run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from 
the  midnight  wood  they  came, — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met, 
unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame; 


112  NEW   ENGLAND 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in 

earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit 

sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a 

dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly 

marching  in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "thus  I 

foil  the  Evil  One  ! " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet, 

down  his  gun. 


Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded 
wall  about; 

Once  again  the  leveled  muskets  through  the  pali- 
sades flashed  out, 

With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top 
might  not  shun 

Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant 
wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless 

shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the 

phantoms  fled; 


CAPE   ANN  113 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the 

moonlight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted 

slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

"God  preserve  us!"  said  the  captain;  "never 
mortal  foes  were  there; 

They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and 
Power  of  the  air  ! 

Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons;  skill  and  prowess 
naught  avail; 

They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their  mas- 
ter's coat  of  mail ! " 


So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again  a 

warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round 

the  dusky  hall: 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they 

longed  for  break  of  day; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible:  "Let  us  cease 

from  man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen 

powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its 

roots  in  holy  fear. 


114  NEW   ENGLAND 

Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was 

bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the 

captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spec- 
ters round  the  wall, 

But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears 
and  hearts  of  all, — 

Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  !     Never 
after  mortal  man 

Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round   the 
block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 

***** 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 
Ipswich  Town<^x    ^>    <^>    <^>    *o>    <^>    <^ 

T  LOVE  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town — 
•*•     Old  Ipswich  town  in  the  East  Countree  ! 
Where  on  the  tide  you  can  drift  down 
Through  the  long  salt  grass  to  the  wailing  sea. 
Where  the  Mayflower  found,  long  years  agone, 
A  hissing  bar  and  an  angry  lee; 
And  dared  not  enter,  but  sailed  away 
Till  she  landed  her  boats  in  Plymouth  Bay  ! 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town, 
Where  Whitefield  preached  in  the  church  on  the  hill, 
And  drove  out  the  Devil,  'till  he  leaped  down 
From  the  steeple's  top,  and  they  show  you  still 


IPSWICH  1 1  5 

Imbedded  deep  in  the  solid  rock 

The  indelible  print  of  his  iron  hoof, 

And  tell  you  the  Devil  has  never  shown 

Face  or  hoof,  since  that  day,  in  the  honest  town! 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town. 
That  house  to  your  right,  a  rod  or  more, 
Where  the  stern  old  elm  trees  seem  to  frown 
If  you  peer  too  hard  through  the  open  door, 
Sheltered  the  Regicide  Judges  three 
When  the  Royal  Sheriffs  were  after  them: 
And  a  queer  old  villager  once  I  met 
Who  swears  in  the  cellar  they're  living  yet ! 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town. 
Harry  Main,  so  the  legend  runs,  lived  there  ! 
He  blasphemed  God,  so  they  sent  him  down 
With  an  iron  shovel,  to  Ipswich  bar: 
They  chained  him  there  for  a  thousand  years 
When  the  sea  rolls  in  to  shovel  it  back: 
So — when  the  sea  cries — the  people  say 
"Harry  Main  growls  at  his  work  to-day." 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town — 

Where  they  locked  up  the  witches  until  the  day 

When    they  should  be   roasted   so   thoroughly 

brown 

In  Salem  village,  twelve  miles  away  ! 
They've  moved  it  off  for  a  stable  now, 
But  there  are  the  holes  where  the  stout  gaol  stood, 


Il6  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  at  night  they  say — that  over  the  holes 
You  can  see  the  ghost  of  Goody  Cowles  ! 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town — 

Of  its  saddest  lore  is  the  ancient  lay 

Of  Heartbreak  Hill  and  its  poetry — 

And  how  human  hearts  are  the  same  alway ! 

She  sat  on  its  crest  and  watched  the  sea, 

She  was  a  savage,  but  she  was  true, 

But  an  English  sailor  his  word  betrayed 

And  he  broke  the  heart  of  an  Indian  maid ! 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town  ! 

There's  a  graveyard  up  on  the  old  High  Street 

Whence  ten  generations  are  looking  down 

On  the  one  that  is  toiling  at  their  feet: 

Where  the  stones  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  like 

troops 

Drawn  up  to  receive  a  cavalry  charge; 
And  graves  have  been  dug  in  graves — till  the  sod 
Is  the  mold  of  good  men  gone  to  God ! 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town, 
Old  Ipswich  town  in  the  East  Countree ! 
Where  on  the  tide  you  can  drift  down 
Through  the  long  salt  grass  to  the  wailing  sea ! 
And  lie  all  day  on  the  glassy  beach 
And  guess  the  lesson  the  green  waves  teach ! 
Till  at  sunset,  from  surf  and  seaweed  brown 
You  are  pulling  back  to  Ipswich  town ! 

James  Appleton  Morgan. 


IPSWICH  1 1 7 

Heartbreak  Hill    ^>     <^»     ^>     ^>    <ix    <^ 

(Ipswich) 

TN  Ipswich  town,  not  far  from  the  sea, 
-*•     Rises  a  hill  which  the  people  call 
Heartbreak  Hill,  and  its  history 
Is  an  old,  old  legend,  known  to  all. 

The  selfsame  dreary,  worn-out  tale 
Told  by  all  peoples  in  every  clime, 

Still  to  be  told  till  the  ages  fail, 
And  there  comes  a  pause  in  the  march  of  Time. 

It  was  a  sailor  who  won  the  heart 

Of  an  Indian  maiden,  lithe  and  young; 

And  she  saw  him  over  the  sea  depart, 
While  sweet  in  her  ear  his  promise  rung; 

For  he  cried,  as  he  kissed  her  wet  eyes  dry, 
"I'll  come  back,  sweetheart;  keep  your  faith!" 

She  said,  "I  will  watch  while  the  moons  go  by": 
Her  love  was  stronger  than  life  or  death. 

So  this  poor  dusk  Ariadne  kept 

Her  watch  from  the  hill- top  rugged  and  steep; 
Slowly  the  empty  moments  crept 

While  she  studied  the  changing  face  of  the  deep, 

Fastening  her  eyes  upon  every  speck 
That  crossed  the  ocean  within  her  ken; 

Might  not  her  lover  be  walking  the  deck, 
Surely  and  swiftly  returning  again  ? 


I  1 8  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  Isles  of  Shoals  loomed,  lonely  and  dim, 
In  the  northeast  distance  far  and  gray, 

And  on  the  horizon's  uttermost  rim 

The  low  rock  heap  of  Boone  Island  lay. 

And  north  and  south  and  west  and  east 

Stretched  sea  and  land  in  the  blinding  light, 

Till  evening  fell,  and  her  vigil  ceased, 
And  many  a  hearth-glow  lit  the  night, 

To  mock  those  set  and  glittering  eyes 
Fast  growing  wild  as  her  hope  went  out. 

Hateful  seemed  earth,  and  the  hollow  skies, 
Like  her  own  heart,  empty  of  aught  but  doubt. 

Oh,  but  the  weary,  merciless  days, 

With  the  sun  above,  with  the  sea  afar, — 

No  change  in  her  fixed  and  wistful  gaze 
From  the  morning-red  to  the  evening  star  ! 

Oh,  the  winds  that  blew,  and  the  birds  that  sang, 
The  calms  that  smiled,  and  the  storms  that 

rolled, 

The  bells  from  the  town  beneath,  that  rang 
Through  the  summer's  heat  and  the  winter's 
cold! 

The  flash  of  the  plunging  surges  white, 
The  soaring  gull's  wild  boding  cry, 

She  was  weary  of  all;  there  was  no  delight 
In  heaven  or  earth,  and  she  longed  to  die. 


AN  DOVER  1 19 

What  was  it  to  her  though  the  Dawn  should  paint 
With  delicate  beauty  skies  and  seas  ? 

But  the  sweet,  sad  sunset  splendors  faint 
Made  her  soul  sick  with  memories. 

Drowning  in  sorrowful  purple  a  sail 

In  the  distant  east,  where  shadows  grew, 

Till  the  twilight  shrouded  it,  cold  and  pale, 
And  the  tide  of  her  anguish  rose  anew. 

Like  a  slender  statue  carved  of  stone 
She  sat,  with  hardly  motion  or  breath. 

She  wept  no  tears  and  she  made  no  moan, 
But  her  love  was  stronger  than  life  or  death. 

He  never  came  back  !    Yet  faithful  still, 
She  watched  from  the  hill-top  her  life  away, 

And  the  townsfolk  christened  it  Heartbreak  Hill, 
And  it  bears  the  name  to  this  very  day. 

Celia  Thaxter. 

From  The  School-Boy    <z>    <z>    <z>    <z>    <z> 

(Andover) 

MY  cheek  was  bare  of  adolescent  down 
When  first  I  sought  the  Academic  town: 
Slow  rolls  the  coach  along  the  dusty  road, 
Big  with  its  filial  and  parental  load; 
The  frequent  hills,  the  lonely  woods  are  past, 
The  school-boy's  chosen  home  is  reached  at  last. 


120  NEW   ENGLAND 

I  see  it  now,  the  same  unchanging  spot, 
The  swinging  gate,  the  little  garden-plot, 
The  narrow  yard,  the  rock  that  made  its  floor, 
The  flat,  pale  house,  the  knocker-garnished  door, 
The  small,  trim  parlor,  neat,  decorous,  chill, 
The  strange,  new  faces,  kind,  but  grave  and  still; 
Two,  creased  with  age, — or  what  I  then  called 

age,— 

Life's  volume  open  at  its  fiftieth  page; 
One  a  shy  maiden's,  pallid,  placid,  sweet 
As  the  first  snow-drop  which  the  sunbeams  greet; 
One  the  last  nursling's;  slight  she  was,  and  fair, 
Her  smooth  white  forehead  warmed  with  auburn 

hair. 


Brave,  but  with  effort,  had  the  school-boy  come 
To  the  cold  comfort  of  a  stranger's  home; 
How  like  a  dagger  to  my  sinking  heart 
Came  the  dry  summons,  "It  is  time  to  part; 
Good-by!"  "  Goo-ood-by  ! "  one   fond  maternal 

kiss. 

Homesick  as  death !    Was  ever  pang  like  this  ? 
Too  young  as  yet  with  willing  feet  to  stray 
From  the  tame  fireside,  glad  to  get  away, — 
Too  old  to  let  my  watery  grief  appear, — 
And  what  so  bitter  as  a  swallowed  tear! 


ANDOVER  1 2 1 

The  morning  came;  I  reached  the  classic  hall; 
A  clock-face  eyed  me,  staring  from  the  wall; 
Beneath  its  hands  a  printed  line  I  read: 
"Youth  is  life's  seed-time";   so   the  clock-face 

said; 

Some  took  its  counsel,  as  the  sequel  showed, — 
Sowed — their  wild  oats,  and  reaped  as  they  had 

sowed. 
How  all   comes   back!   the   upward    slanting 

floor, — 
The   masters'    thrones    that   flank    the    central 

door,— 

The  long,  outstretching  alleys  that  divide 
The  rows  of  desks  that  stand  on  either  side, — 
The  staring  boys,  a  face  to  every  desk, 
Bright,  dull,  pale,  blooming,  common,  picturesque. 
Grave  is  the  Master's  look;  his  forehead  wears 
Thick    rows    of    wrinkles,    prints    of    worrying 

cares; 

Uneasy  lie  the  heads  of  all  that  rule, 
His  most  of  all  whose  kingdom  is  a  school. 
Supreme  he  sits;  before  the  awful  frown 
That  bends  his  brows  the  boldest  eye  goes  down; 
Not  more  submissive  Israel  heard  and  saw 
At  Sinai's  foot  the  Giver  of  the  Law. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


122  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  Double-headed  Snake  of  Newbury       ^ 

(Newbury) 

"Concerning  ye  Amphisbaena,  as  soon  as  I  received  your  commands, 
I  made  diligent  inquiry:  ....  he  assures  me  y*  hud  really  two  heads, 
one  at  each  end;  two  mouths,  two  stings  or  tongues."  —  KEV.  CHRIS- 
TOPHER TOPPAN  TO  COTTON  MATHER. 

T7 AR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
•*-       Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water  and  air  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
The  Amphisbaena,  the  Double  Snake  ! 


Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 

Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 

On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 

Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the  wood  so  dreary  and  dark  and  old, 

Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the  dew 

When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 

And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 

Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared  and  hewn. 


NEWBURY  123 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 

Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood  blown, 

Of   the    strange,    vast    splendors    that    lit  the 

North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking  earth, 
And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 
Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew  cold, 
And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard's  boasts, 
And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of  ghosts, 
And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 
The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified; — 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 
To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor  known, 
How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve; 
And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not  a  score ! 


Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 

Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  \vooded  Artichoke, 

Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show; 

Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 

And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 

In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 

For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should  be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 


124  NEW   ENGLAND 

But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near  ! — 
Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear  ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 
Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day  ! 
How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 
The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to  stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay  ! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 
Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 
The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's  cry; 
And  it  serv.ed,  in  the  worthy  minister's  eye, 
To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 


NEWBURY  125 

Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 

With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 

And  his  marvelous  inkhorn  at  his  side; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 

Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at  school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek : 

And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he  took, 

Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book  ? 


Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 

If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 

Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 

And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 

The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 

Of  their  gray  heads,  "Look  at  the  Double  Snake! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 

The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still  !  " 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


126  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall  <^>     ^x     ^ 

(Newbury) 

1697 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 
For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day  are  hid, 
And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again: 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 
Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 
Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not; 
Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to  kiss  ! 
True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 
***** 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson  and  gold  and  amethyst. 


NEWBURY  1 27 

Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended  bow; 
A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and  hill, 
Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled  eaves, 
Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple  leaves, — 
Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man, — 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace  show, 
Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 
The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 
The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn  stairs, 
And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the  crack 
By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 
Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village  spire 
With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire; 
Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands 
And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering  sands, 
And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast-lines 

run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun  ! 


128  NEW   ENGLAND 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past  and  old; 
I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told, 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early  days 
Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhythmic  chime 
Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood, 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and  plains, 
His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood  and  wave  and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musing  mind: — 

"As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard  the  coast 
As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 
Of  Merrimac  River,  or  sturgeon  leap; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim; 
As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go; 
As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 
Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 


NEVVBURY  1 29 

And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide; 

As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 

The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 

When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and  shorn, 

And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  standing  corn; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 

Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 

And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 

And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set; — 

So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 

Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn  ! — 

By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of  frost, 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 

But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's  sight, 

Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light !  " 

The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl  feeds 

On  hillside  berries  and  marish  seeds, — 

All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 

From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 

The  good  man's  vision  returns  again  ! 

And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 

That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 

May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 

In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 

And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to  own 

The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


130  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  Preacher     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^>     ^>     <^ 

(Newbtiryport) 

TTS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
•*•     Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 
Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town: 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery, 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea- mist  north  and  south; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 
Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 
Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 
It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 

Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 

Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes  ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran  the  landscape.    "Yonder  spire 
Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire; 


NEWBURYPORT  1 3 1 

What  is  it,  pray  ?  "    "  The  Whitefield  Church  ! 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvelous  prophet's  bones." 
Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our  blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 
***** 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvelous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 
Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveler  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 
And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him  search 
For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield  Church; 


132  NEW    ENGLAND 

And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of  trade 

And  fashion  and  folly  and  pleasure  laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  intent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 

Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent. 

And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 

Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 

And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 

The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  defense, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 

With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder-rod, — 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 

Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 

His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Beaver  Brook  <^    <^>    -o    <^y    <o    <^> 

(Waverly) 

TJTUSHED  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill, 

And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 
The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still, 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup, 
The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir; 
Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 


WAVERLY  133 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink, 
From  'neath  the  arching  barberry-stems, 
My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 

Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood 
The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din; 
The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 
Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here; 
Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 
And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will. 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 
Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 
Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge  round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 
The  quivering  millstones  hum  and  whirl, 
Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice, 
To  see  how  Beauty  underlies 
Forevermore  each  form  of  Use. 


134  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  more:  methought  I  saw  that  flood, 
Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 
Thick,  here  and  there,  with  human  blood, 
To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 
Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 
Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 
Moves  every  day's  machinery. 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 
No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 
Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth 

Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play, 

Fresh  blood  in  Time's  shrunk  veins  make  mirth, 

And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

A  Song  for  Lexington  ^y    <^>    <^,    <^x    ^> 

(Lexington) 

HPHE  spring  came  earlier  on 
-*•      Than  usual  that  year; 
The  shadiest  snow  was  gone, 
The  slowest  brook  was  clear, 
And  warming  in  the  sun 
Shy  flowers  began  to  peer. 


LEXINGTON  13$ 

'Twas  more  like  middle  May, 
The  earth  so  seemed  to  thrive, 
That  Nineteenth  April  day 
Of  Seventeen  Seventy-Five; 
Winter  was  well  away, 
New  England  was  alive  ! 

Alive  and  sternly  glad  ! 

Her  doubts  were  with  the  snow; 

Her  courage,  long  forbade, 

Ran  full  to  overflow; 

And  every  hope  she  had 

Began  to  bud  and  grow. 

She  rose  betimes  that  morn, 
For  there  was  work  to  do; 
A  planting,  not  of  corn, 
Of  what  she  hardly  knew, — 
Blessings  for  men  unborn; 
And  well  she  did  it  too  ! 

With  open  hand  she  stood, 
And  sowed  for  all  the  years, 
And  watered  it  with  blood, 
And  watered  it  with  tears, 
The  seed  of  quickening  food 
For  both  the  hemispheres. 

This  was  the  planting  done 
That  April  morn  of  fame; 


136  NEW   ENGLAND 

Honor  to  every  one 

To  that  seed-field  that  came  ! 

Honor  to  Lexington, 

Our  first  immortal  name  ! 

Robert  Kclley  Weeks. 


Brook 

(Concord) 


BROOK  FARM,  April  13,  1841. 


"LTERE  I  am  in  a  polar  Paradise  !  I  know  not 
•*•  •*•  how  to  interpret  this  aspect  of  nature,  — 
whether  it  be  of  good  or  evil  omen  to  our  enter- 
prise. But  I  reflect  that  the  Plymouth  pilgrims 
arrived  in  the  midst  of  storm,  and  stepped  ashore 
upon  mountain  snow-drifts;  and,  nevertheless, 
they  prospered,  and  became  a  great  people,  —  and 
doubtless  it  will  be  the  same  with  us.  I  laud  my 
stars,  however,  that  you  will  not  have  your  first 
impressions  of  (perhaps)  our  future  home  from 
such  a  day  as  this.  .  .  . 

Through  faith,  I  persist  in  believing  that  Spring 
and  Summer  will  come  in  their  due  season;  but  the 
unregenerated  man  shivers  within  me,  and  sug- 
gests a  doubt  whether  I  may  not  have  wandered 
within  the  precincts  of  the  Arctic  circle,  and 
chosen  my  heritage  among  everlasting  snows.  .  .  . 
I  have  not  yet  taken  my  first  lessons  in  agriculture, 
except  that  I  went  to  see  our  cows  foddered,  yes- 
terday afternoon.  We  have  eight  of  our  own  ;  and 


CONCORD  137 

the  number  is  now  increased  by  a  transcendental 
heifer  belonging  to  Miss  Margaret  Fuller.  She  is 
very  fractious,  I  believe,  and  apt  to  kick  over  the 
milk-pail.  ...  I  intend  to  convert  myself  into  a 
milk-maid  this  evening,  but  I  pray  that  Mr. 
Ripley  may  be  moved  to  assign  me  the  kindliest 
cow  in  the  herd,  otherwise  I  shall  perform  my  duty 
with  fear  and  trembling. 

I  like  my  brethren  in  affliction  very  well;  and, 
could  you  see  us  sitting  round  our  table  at  meal- 
times, before  the  great  kitchen  fire,  you  would  call 
it  a  cheerful  sight. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 


Musketaquid      *c>     <^>      ^>     <^      <^>     <o 

(Concord) 

"DECAUSE  I  was  content  with  these  poor  fields, 
-*-'     Low,  open    meads,    slender    and    sluggish 

streams, 

And  found  a  home  in  haunts  which  others  scorned, 
The  partial  wood-gods  overpaid  my  love, 
And  granted  me  the  freedom  of  their  state, 
And  in  their  secret  senate  have  prevailed 
With  the  dear,  dangerous  lords  that  rule  our  life, 
Made  moon  and  planets  parties  to  their  bond, 
And  through  my  rock-like,  solitary  wont 
Shot  million  rays  of  thought  and  tenderness. 


138  NEW  ENGLAND 

For    me,  in  showers,  in  sweeping  showers,  the 

spring 

Visits  the  valley;  break  away  the  clouds, — 
I  bathe  in  the  morn's  soft  and  silvered  air, 
And  loiter  willing  by  yon  loitering  stream. 
Sparrows  far  off,  and  nearer,  April's  bird, 
Blue-coated,  flying  before  from  tree  to  tree, 
Courageous,  sing  a  delicate  overture 
To  lead  the  tardy  concert  of  the  year. 
Onward  and  nearer  rides  the  sun  of  May; 
And  wide  around,  the  marriage  of  the  plants 
Is  sweetly  solemnized.     Then  flows  amain 
The  surge  of  summer's  beauty;  dell  and  crag, 
Hollow  and  lake,  hillside,  and  pine  arcade, 
Are  touched  with  genius.     Yonder  ragged  cliff 
Has  thousand  faces  in  a  thousand  hours. 
Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plow  unburies, 
Here  in  pine  houses  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell. 
Traveler,  to  thee,  perchance,  a  tedious  road, 
Or,  it  may  be,  a  picture;  to  these  men, 
The  landscape  is  an  armory  of  powers, 
Which,  one  by  one,  they  know  to  draw  and  use. 
They  harness  beast,  bird,  insect,  to  their  work; 
They  prove  the  virtues  of  each  bed  of  rock, 
And,  like  the  chemist  mid  his  loaded  jars, 


CONCORD  139 

Draw  from  each  stratum  its  adapted  use 
To  drug  their  crops  or  weapon  their  arts  withal. 
They  turn  the  frost  upon  their  cherm'c  heap, 
They  set  the  wind  to  winnow  pulse  and  grain, 
They  thank  the  spring-flood  for  its  fertile  slime, 
Earlier,  on  cheap  summit-levels  of  the  snow, 
Slide  with  the  sledge  to  inaccessible  woods 
O'er  meadows  bottomless.    So,  year  by  year, 
They  fight  the  elements  with  elements, 
(That  one  would  say,  meadow  and  forest  walked, 
Transmuted  in  these  men  to  rule  their  like,) 
And  by  the  order  in  the  field  disclose 
The  order  regnant  in  the  yeoman's  brain. 

What  these  strong  masters  wrote   at  large  in 

miles 

I  followed  in  small  copy  in  my  acre; 
For  there's  no  rood  has  not  a  star  above  it; 
The  cordial  quality  of  pear  or  plum  . 
Ascends  as  gladly  in  a  single  tree 
As  in  broad  orchards  resonant  with  bees; 
And  every  atom  poises  for  itself, 
And  for  the  whole.    The  gentle  deities 
Showed  me  the  lore  of  colors  and  of  sounds, 
The  innumerable  tenements  of  beauty, 
The  miracle  of  generative  force, 
Far-reaching  concords  of  astronomy 
Felt  in  the  plants,  and  in  the  punctual  birds: 
Better,  the  linked  purpose  of  the  whole, 


140  NEW   ENGLAND 

And,  chiefest  prize,  found  I  true  liberty 

In  the  glad  home  plain-dealing  nature  gave. 

The  polite  found  me  impolite;  the  great 

Would  mortify  me,  but  in  vain;  for  still 

I  am  a  willow  of  the  wilderness, 

Loving  the  wind  that  bent  me.    All  my  hurts 

My  garden  spade  can  heal.    A  woodland  walk, 

A  quest  of  river-grapes,  a  mocking  thrush, 

A  wild-rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 

Salve  my  wrorst  wounds. 

For  thus  the  wood-gods  murmured  in  my  ear: 

"  Dost  love  our  manners  ?    Canst  thou  silent  lie  ? 

Canst  thou,  thy  pride  forgot,  like  nature  pass 

Into  the  winter  night's  extinguished  mood  ? 

Canst  thou  shine  now,  then  darkle, 

And  being  latent  feel  thyself  no  less  ? 

As  when  the  all- worshiped  moon  attracts  the  eye, 

The  river,  hill,  stems,  foliage  are  obscure, 

Yet  envies  none,  none  are  unenviable." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


Two  Rivers     <^>    <^>    ^>    <^>    ^>    <^x 

(Concord) 

r"PHY  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 
•*-      Repeats  the  music  of  the  rain; 
But  sweeter  rivers  pulsing  flit 
Through  thee,  as  thou  through  Concord  Plain. 


CONCORD  141 

Thou  in  thy  narrow  banks  art  pent: 
The  stream  I  love  unbounded  goes 
Through  flood  and  sea  and  firmament; 
Through  light,  through  life,  it  forward  flows. 

I  see  the  inundation  sweet, 

I  hear  the  spending  of  the  stream 

Through   years,  through  men,    through    nature 

fleet, 
Through  love  and  thought,  through  power  and 

dream. 

Musketaquit,  a  goblin  strong, 
Of  shard  and  flint  makes  jewels  gay; 
They  lose  their  grief  who  hear  his  song, 
And  where  he  winds  is  the  day  of  day. 

So  forth  and  brighter  fares  my  stream, — 
Who  drink  it  shall  not  thirst  again; 
No  darkness  stains  its  equal  gleam, 
And  ages  drop  in  it  like  rain. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

Thoreau's  Flute      <i*    <^    ^>    <^>    <^y    -Q> 

(Concord) 

\~\TE,  sighing,  said,  "Our  Pan  is  dead; 
^    His  pipe  hangs  mute  beside  the  river; 
Around  it  wistful  sunbeams  quiver, 
But  Music's  airy  voice  is  fled. 


142  NEW   ENGLAND 

Spring  mourns  as  for  untimely  frost; 

The  bluebird  chants  a  requiem; 

The  willow-blossom  waits  for  him; — 
The  Genius  of  the  wood  is  lost." 


Then  from  the  flute,  untouched  by  hands, 
There  came  a  low,  harmonious  breath: 
"For  such  as  he  there  is  no  death; 

His  life  the  eternal  life  commands; 

Above  man's  aims  his  nature  rose: 
The  wisdom  of  a  just  content 
Made  one  small  spot  a  continent, 

And  turned  to  poetry  Life's  prose. 

"Haunting  the  hills,  the  stream,  the  wild, 
Swallow  and  aster,  lake  and  pine, 
To  him  grew  human  or  divine, — 

Fit  mates  for  this  large-hearted  child. 

Such  homage  Nature  ne'er  forgets, 
And  yearly  on  the  coverlid 
'Neath  which  her  darling  lieth  hid 

Will  write  his  name  in  violets. 


"To  him  no  vain  regrets  belong, 
Whose  soul,  that  finer  instrument, 
Gave  to  the  world  no  poor  lament, 

But  wood-notes  ever  sweet  and  strong. 


CONCORD  143 

O  lonely  friend  !  he  still  will  be 

A  potent  presence,  though  unseen, — 
Steadfast,  sagacious,  and  serene: 

Seek  not  for  him, — he  is  with  thee." 

Louisa  May  Alcott. 

Walden  Lake  <^>    ^    <^>    ^>    ^>    <^>    <^> 

(Concord) 

TT  is  not  far  beyond  the  village  church, 

After  we  pass  the  wood  that  skirts  the  road, 
A  lake, — the  blue-eyed  Walden,  that  doth  smile 
Most  tenderly  upon  its  neighbor  pines; 
And  they,  as  if  to  recompense  this  love, 
In  double  beauty  spread  their  branches  forth. 
This  lake  has  tranquil  loveliness  and  breadth, 
And,  of  late  years,  has  added  to  its  charms; 
For  one  attracted  to  its  pleasant  edge 
Has  built  himself  a  little  hermitage, 
Where  with  much  piety  he  passes  life. 

More  fitting  place  I  cannot  fancy  now, 
For  such  a  man  to  let  the  line  run  off 
The  mortal  reel, — such  patience  hath  the  lake, 
Such  gratitude  and  cheer  is  in  the  pines. 
But  more  than  either  lake  or  forest's  depths 
This  man  has  in  himself:  a  tranquil  man, 
With  sunny  sides  where  well  the  fruit  is  ripe, 
Good  front  and  resolute  bearing  to  this  life, 


144  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  some  serener  virtues,  which  control 
This  rich  exterior  prudence, — virtues  high, 
That  in  the  principles  of  things  are  set, 
Great  by  their  nature,  and  consigned  to  him, 
Who,  like  a  faithful  merchant,  does  account 
To  God  for  what  he  spends,  and  in  what  way. 
Thrice  happy  art  thou,  Walden,  in  thyself  ! 
Such  purity  is  in  thy  limpid  springs, — 
In  those  green  shores  which  do  reflect  in  thee, 
And  in  this  man  who  dwells  upon  thy  edge, 
A  holy  man  within  a  hermitage. 
May  all  good  showers  fall  gently  into  thee, 
May  thy  surrounding  forests  long  be  spared, 
And  may  the  dweller  on  thy  tranquil  marge 
There  lead  a  life  of  deep  tranquillity, 
Pure  as  thy  waters,  handsome  as  thy  shores, 
And  with  those  virtues  which  are  like  the  stars  ! 
William  Ellery  Channing. 

The  Snow-Storm    ^>    ^>    *o    <^>    <^>    ^ 

(Concord) 

A  NNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
**•     Arrives  the    snow;  and,  driving  o'er    the 

fields, 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveler  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 


CONCORD  145 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage;  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Mauger  the  farmer's  sighs;  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


146  NEW   ENGLAND 

Eliot's  Oak      «o    <^*    ^    <^>    <^    <^    *o 

(Natick) 

THOU  ancient  oak  !  whose  myriad  leaves  are 
loud 

With  sounds  of  unintelligible  speech, 
Sounds  as  of  surges  on  a  shingly  beach, 
Or  multitudinous  murmurs  of  a  crowd; 
With  some  mysterious  gift  of  tongues  endowed, 
Thou  speakest  a  different  dialect  to  each; 
To  me  a  language  that  no  man  can  teach, 
Of  a  lost  race,  long  vanished  like  a  cloud. 
For  underneath  thy  shade,  in  days  remote, 
Seated  like  Abraham  at  eventide 
Beneath  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  the  unknown 
Apostle  of  the  Indians,  Eliot,  wrote 
His  Bible  in  a  language  that  hath  died 
And  is  forgotten,  save  by  thee  alone. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

From  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn      <^>     <^>     <^> 

(Sudbvry) 

PRELUDE 

/"YNTE  autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 
^-^     Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown, 
The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 
Gleamed  red  with  firelight  through  the  leaves 
Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 
Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin. 


SUDBURY  147 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 

As  any  in  the  land  may  be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a  grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality; 

A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 

Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 

With  weather-stains  upon  the  wall, 

And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 

And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 

And  chimneys  huge  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A  region  of  repose  it  seems, 

A  place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 

Remote  among  the  wooded  hills  ! 

For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 

Its  torch-race  scattering  smoke  and  gleeds; 

But  noon  and  night,  the  panting  teams 

Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 

Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 

On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills; 

Across  the  road  the  barns  display 

Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay; 

Through  the  wide  doors  the  breezes  blow; 

The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro, 

And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 

The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 

Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a  gust 


148  NEW   ENGLAND 

Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 
And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 
A  moment  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered  and  danced  their  dance  of  death, 
And  through  the  ancient  oaks  o'erhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Anne   <^>     x^>     ^y     •<^>     yo>     *c>     "x>     <• 

(Sudbwy  Meetinghouse,  1653) 

[ER  eyes  be  like  the  violets, 
Ablow  in  Sudbury  lane; 
When  she  doth  smile,  her  face  is  sweet 

As  blossoms  after  rain; 
With  grief  I  think  of  my  gray  hairs, 
And  wish  me  young  again. 

In  comes  she  through  the  dark  old  door 

Upon  this  Sabbath  day; 
And  she  doth  bring  the  tender  wind 

That  sings  in  bush  and  tree; 
And  hints  of  all  the  apple  boughs 

That  kissed  her  by  the  way. 

Our  parson  stands  up  straight  and  tall, 

For  our  dear  souls  to  pray, 
And  of  the  place  where  sinners  go 

Some  gruesome  things  doth  say: 
Now,  she  is  highest  Heaven  to  me; 

So  Hell  is  far  away. 


WACHUSETT   MT.  149 

Most  stiff  and  still  the  good  folk  sit 
To  hear  the  sermon  through; 

But  if  our  God  be  such  a  God, 
And  if  these  things  be  true, 

Why  did  He  make  her  then  so  fair, 
And  both  her  eyes  so  blue  ? 

A  flickering  light,  the  sun  creeps  in, 

And  finds  her  sitting  there; 
And  touches  soft  her  lilac  gown, 

And  soft  her  yellow  hair; 
I  look  across  to  that  old  pew, 

And  have  both  praise  and  prayer. 

Oh,  violets  in  Sudbury  lane, 

Amid  the  grasses  green, 
This  maid  who  stirs  ye  with  her  feet 

Is  far  more  fair,  I  ween  ! 
I  wonder  how  my  forty  years 

Look  by  her  sweet  sixteen  ! 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 

Monadnock  from  Wachusett       <^>      <^>      ^> 

(Wachusett  Mt.) 

T  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
•*•    Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 

A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread, 
Into  that  mountain  mystery.    First  a  lake 


150  NEW   ENGLAND 

Tinted  with  sunset;  next  the  wavy  lines 

Of  far  receding  hills;  and  yet  more  far 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachusett  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose  warm  light  made 

His  aureole;  and  o'er  him,  sharp  and  clear, 
Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launching  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 

Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden  spear  ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.    Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our 

back;    . 

And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 

The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's-nest 

hung. 

With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred: 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed;  the 

gate 
Of   the   barnyard   creaked   beneath    the    merry 

weight 
Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they 

swung, 


WACHUSETT   MT.  !$! 

The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in   tinklings 

clear, 

The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward  path  we 

took, 

Praising  the  farmer's  home.    He  only  spake, 
Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near: 
"Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look; 
I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 

Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of  God! " 
The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow  deepest  sank, 
Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road: 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his  abode, — 
The  inward  life  than  Nature's  raiment  more; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted  hill, 
The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed  and 

dim 

Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human  will 
Meekly  in  the  Eternal  footsteps  trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 

Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of  seraphim. 

John  Greenleaf  Whiltier. 


152  NEW   ENGLAND 

To  Wachusett      <^>    <^>     <^>     *o     ^>     ^ 

A  \  7TTH  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 
^  *      With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 
Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 
Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 
Monadnock,  and  the  Peterboro'  hills; 
Like  some  vast  fleet, 
Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 
Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat; 
Still  holding  on,  upon  your  high  emprise, 
Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies; 
Not  skulking  close  to  land, 
With  cargo  contraband, 
For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 
Have  set  the  sun  to  see 
Their  honesty. 
Ships  of  line,  each  one, 
Ye  to  the  westward  run, 
Always  before  the  gale, 
Under  a  press  of  sail, 
With  a  weight  of  metal  all  untold. 
I  seem  to  feel  ye,  in  my  firm  seat  here, 
Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 
And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear. 


But  special  I  remember  thee, 
Wachusett,  who  like  me 
Standest  alone  without  society. 


SPRINGFIELD  153 

Thy  far  blue  eye, 

A  remnant  of  the  sky, 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  the  forge, 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true, 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer, 

\\£ho  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven, 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven, 

And  canst  expand  thee  there, 

And  breathe  enough  of  air  ! 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth, 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other ; 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother  ! 

Henry  David  Thoreau. 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield  -o>     <^>     ^>     <^> 

(Springfield) 

THIS  is  the  arsenal.    From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms; 
But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah!  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys! 


154  NEW   ENGLAND 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer,  • 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's 
song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's 
skin; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 


SPRINGFIELD  1 5  5 

Is  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with 

terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and 

courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts; 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred! 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow    fainter    and    then 

cease; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the   voice  of    Christ   say, 
"Peace!" 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


156  NEW   ENGLAND 


Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country 1       <^>      <^> 

(Cummington) 

T  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 
•*•     Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  sum- 
mer sky, 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie; 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 


A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who  now 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 


For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains, — to  behold 

With  deep  affection  the  pure  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, — 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission 
of  D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


PITTSFIELD  157 

Here  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind  !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows;  when,  in  the  sultry  time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime  ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs       *^>     ^     ^x 

(Pitts field} 

L'£ternit6  est  une  pendulc,  dont  le  balancier  dit  et  redit  sans  cessc 
ces  deux  mots  seulement,  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux:  "Toujoussl 
jamais!  Jamais!  toujours!  "  —  Jacques  Bridaine. 

COMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
**•*     Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  ils  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar- trees  their  shadows  throw; 


158  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,- 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 


Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 

From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 

"Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 


By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,- 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 


Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 


PITTSFIELD  159 

And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 

"Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 


In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, — 

"Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 


There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed; 

O  precious  hours  !    0  golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !. " 


From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding-night; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow; 


160  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

"Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  " 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, — 

"Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, — 

"Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

A  Rhyme  of  Tyringham      <^*     ^>     ^     ^> 

(Tyringham) 

"P\OWN  in  the  meadow  and  up  on  the  height 
*-"*     The  breezes  are  blowing  the  willows  white. 
In  the  elms  and  maples  the  robins  call, 
And  the  great  black  crow  sails  over  all 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 


TYRINGHAM  l6l 

The  river  winds  through  the  trees  and  the  brake 
And  the  meadow-grass  like  a  shining  snake; 
And  low  in  the  summer  and  loud  in  the  spring 
The  rapids  and  reaches  murmur  and  sing 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

In  the  shadowy  pools  the  trout  are  shy, 
So  creep  to  the  bank  and  cast  the  fly  ! 
What  thrills  and  tremors  the  tense  cords  stir 
When  the  trout  it  strikes  with  a  tug  and  whirr 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley  ! 

At  dark  of  the  day  the  mist  spreads  white, 

Like  a  magic  lake  in  the  glimmering  light; 

Or  the  winds  from  the  meadow  the  white  mists 

blow, 

And  the  fireflies  glitter, — a  sky  below, — 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

And  oh,  in  the  windy  days  of  the  fall 
The  maples  and  elms  are  scarlet  all, 
And  the  world  that  was  green  is  gold  and  red, 
And  with  huskings  and  cider  they're  late  to  bed 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

Now  squirrel  and  partridge  and  hawk  and  hare 
And  wildcat  and  woodchuck  and  fox  beware  ! 
The  three  days'  hunt  is  waxing  warm 
For  the  count  up  dinner  at  Riverside  Farm 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 


1 62  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  meadow-ice  will  be  freezing  soon, 
And  then  for  a  skate  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
So  pile  the  wood  on  the  hearth,  my  boy  ! 
Winter  is  coming  !    I  wish  you  joy 
By  the  light  of  the  hearth  and  the  moon,  my  boy, 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

Evening  in  Tyringham  Valley       <^>    <c>    -<o 

( Tyringham) 

\  \  7HAT  domes  and  pinnacles  of  mist  and  fire 
^  *       Are  builded  in   yon  spacious  realms  of 

light 
All  silently,  as  did  the  walls  aspire 

Templing  the  ark  of  God  by  day  and  night ! 
Noiseless  and  swift,  from  darkening  ridge  to  ridge, 
Through  purple  air  that  deepens  down  the  day, 
Over  the  valley  springs  a  shadowy  bridge. 

The  evening  star's  keen,  solitary  ray 
Makes  more  intense  the  silence,  and  the  glad, 

Unmelancholy,  restful,  twilight  gloom — 
So  full  of  tenderness,  that  even  the  sad 

Remembrances  that  haunt  the  soul  take  bloom 
Like  that  on  yonder  mountain. 

Now  the  bars 

Of  sunset  all  burn  black;  the  day  doth  fail, 
And  the  skies  whiten  with  the  eternal  stars. 
Oh,  let  thy  spirit  stay  with  me,  sweet  vale  ! 
Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


TYRINGHAM  163 

Moonrise  over  Tyringham x  <^,     o     <ix     ^ 

(Tyringham) 

~]\JOW  the  high  holocaust  of  hours  is  done, 
•*  ^     And  all   the    west   empurpled  with   their 

death, 

How  swift  oblivion  drinks  the  fallen  sun, 
How  little  while  the  dusk  remembereth  ! 

Though    some    there    were,    proud    hours    that 
marched  in  mail, 

And  took  the  morning  on  auspicious  crest, 
Crying  to  Fortune,  "Back  !    For  I  prevail  !  " — 

Yet  now  they  lie  disfeatured  with  the  rest; 

And  some  that  stole  so  soft  on  Destiny 

Methought  they  had  surprised  her  to  a  smile; 

But  these  fled  frozen  when  she  turned  to  see, 
And  moaned  and  muttered  through  my  heart 
awhile. 

But  now  the  day  is  emptied  of  them  all, 

And  night  absorbs  their  life-blood  at  a  draught ; 

And  so  my  life  lies,  as  the  gods  let  fall 

An  empty  cup  from    which    their    lips   have 
quaffed. 

1  From  Artemis  to  Acteon  and  Other  Verse;   copyright,    1909,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


1 64  NEW   ENGLAND 

Yet  see — night  is  not:  by  translucent  ways, 
Up  the  gray  void  of  autumn  afternoon 

Steals  a  mild  crescent,  charioted  in  haze, 
And  all  the  air  is  merciful  as  June. 


The  lake  is  a  forgotten  streak  of  day 

That  trembles  through  the  hemlocks'  darkling 
bars, 

And  still,  my  heart,  still  some  divine  delay 
Upon  the  threshold  holds  the  earliest  stars. 


O  pale  equivocal  hour,  whose  suppliant  feet 
Haunt  the  mute  reaches  of  the  sleeping  wind, 

Art  thou  a  watcher  stealing  to  entreat 
Prayer  and  sepulture  for  thy  fallen  kind  ? 


Poor  plaintive  waif  of  a  predestined  race, 
Their  ruin  gapes  for  thee.    Why  linger  here  ? 

Go  hence  in  silence.    Veil  thine  orphaned  face, 
Lest  I  should  look  on  it  and  call  it  dear. 


For  if  I  love  thee  thou  wilt  sooner  die; 

Some  sudden  ruin  will  plunge  upon  thy  head, 
Midnight  will  fall  from  the  revengeful  sky 

And  hurl  thee  down  among  thy  shuddering 
dead. 


TYRINGHAM  165 

Avert  thine  eyes.    Lapse  softly  from  my  sight, 
Call  not  my  name,  nor  heed  if  thine  I  crave; 

So  shalt  thou  sink  through  mitigated  night 
And  bathe  thee  in  the  all-effacing  wave. 

But  upward  still  thy  perilous  footsteps  fare 
Along  a  high-hung  heaven  drenched  in  light, 

Dilating  on  a  tide  of  crystal  air 

That  floods  the  dark  hills  to  their  utmost  height. 

Strange  hour,  is  this  thy  waning  face  that  leans 
Out  of  mid-heaven  and  makes  my  soul  its  glass  ? 

What  victory  is  imaged  there?    What  means 
Thy  tarrying  smile  ?    Oh,  veil   thy  lips  and 
pass  ! 

Nay — pause  and  let  me  name  thee  !    For  I  see, 
Oh,  with  what  flooding  ecstasy  of  light, 

Strange  hour  that  wilt  not  loose  thy  hold  on  me, 
Thou'rt  not  day's  latest,  but  the  first  of  night! 

And  after  thee  the  gold-foot  stars  come  thick; 

From  hand  to  hand  they  toss  the  flying  fire, 
Till  all  the  zenith  with  their  dance  is  quick, 

About  the  wheeling  music  of  the  Lyre. 

Dread  hour  that  leadst  the  immemorial  round, 
With  lifted  torch  revealing  one  by  one 

The  thronging  splendors  that  the  day  held  bound, 
And  how  each  blue  abyss  enshrines  its  sun — 


1 66  NEW   ENGLAND 

Be  thou  the  image  of  a  thought  that  fares 
Forth  from  itself,  and  flings  its  ray  ahead, 

Leaping  the  barriers  of  ephemeral  cares, 
To  where  our  lives  are  but  the  ages'  tread, 

And  let  this  year  be,  not  the  last  of  youth, 

But  first — like  thee  ! — of  some  new   train  of 

hours, 

If  more  remote  from  hope  yet  nearer  truth, 
And  kin  to  the  unfathomable  powers. 

Edith  Wharton. 

Green  River l       <z>     <z>     <^>     <^>     <z>     *z> 

(Great  Harrington) 

\  "^  7"HEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 

*  *      I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters, — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  dear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission  of 
D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


GREAT   BARRINGTON  l6/ 

And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the 

hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 
Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum; 
The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 


Yet,  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream!  by  the  village  side; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely,  save  when,  by  the  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides; 
Or  the  simpler  comes,  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still,  save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 


1 68  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  or  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveler  singing  along  his  way. 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks,  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud, — 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


MONUMENT   MOUNTAIN  169 

Monument  Mountain 1  <z>     <^y     <^-     <^y     <^y 

*  I  ^HOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
•*•      Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as   thou 

stand'st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.    Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets 

strive 

To  hide  their  windings.    Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 
Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 
That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.    There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission  of 
D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


NEW   ENGLAND 


When  the  flood  drowned  them.    To  the  north,  a 

path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 
With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.    But,  to  the  east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs,  — 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 
With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  there 
Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 
Has  splintered  them.    It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 
Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray 

wall 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 
Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 
Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 
Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 
Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 
Is  lovely  round;  a  beautiful  river  there 
Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  the  soil  for  ages.    On  each  side 
The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills;  beyond, 
Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 
The  mountain  columns  with  which  earth  props 

heaven. 

*  *  *  *  * 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


CAPE  ARUNDEL  I /I 

MAINE 

The  Old  Lobsterman     <^>    <^>    <^,    -o>    *o> 

(Cape  Arundel) 

JUST  back  from  a  beach  of  sand  and  shells, 
And  shingle  the  tides  leave  oozy  and  dank, 
Summer  and  winter  the  old  man  dwells 

In  his  low  brown  house  on  the  river  bank. 
Tempest  and  sea-fog  sweep  the  hoar 
And  wrinkled  sand-drifts  round  his  door, 
Where  often  I  see  him  sit,  as  gray 
And  weather-beaten  and  lonely  as  they. 

Coarse  grasses  wave  on  the  arid  swells 

In  the  wind;  and  two  dwarf  poplar-trees 
Seem  hung  all  over  with  silver  bells 

That  tinkle  and  twinkle  in  sun  and  breeze. 
All  else  is  desolate  sand  and  stone: 
And  here  the  old  lobsterman  lives  alone: 
Nor  other  companionship  has  he 
But  to  sit  in  his  house  and  gaze  at  the  sea. 


A  furlong  or  more  away  to  the  south, 
On  the  bar  beyond  the  huge  sea-walls 

That  keep  the  channel  and  guard  its  mouth, 
The  high,  curved  billow  whitens  and  falls; 


172  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  the  racing  tides  through  the  granite  gate, 
On  their  wild  errands  that  will  not  wait, 
Forever,  unresting,  to  and  fro, 
Course  with  impetuous  ebb  and  flow. 

They  bury  the  barnacled  ledge,  and  make 

Into  every  inlet,  and  crooked  creek, 
And  flood  the  flats  with  a  shining  lake, 

Which  the  proud  ship  plows  with  foam  at  her 

beak; 

The  ships  go  up  to  yonder  town, 
Or  over  the  sea  their  hulls  sink  down, 
And  many  a  pleasure  pinnace  rides 
On  the  restless  backs  of  the  rushing  tides. 

I  try  to  fathom  the  gazer's  dreams, 
But  little  I  gain  from  his  gruff  'replies; 

Far  off,  far  off  the  spirit  seems, 

As  he  looks  at  me  with  those  strange,  gray  eyes; 

Never  a  hail  from  the  shipwrecked  heart ! 

Mysterious  oceans  seem  to  part 

The  desolate  man  from  all  his  kind — 

The  Selkirk  of  his  lonely  mind. 


Solace  he  finds  in  the  sea,  no  doubt: 
To  catch  the  ebb  he  is  up  and  away: 

I  see  him  silently  pushing  out 
On  the  broad,  bright  gleam,  at  break  of  day; 


CAPE   ARUNDEL  I 

And  watch  his  lessening  dory  toss 
On  the  purple  crests  as  he  pulls  across, 
Round  reefs  where  silvery  surges  leap, 
And  meets  the  dawn  on  the  rosy  deep. 

His  soul,  is  it  open  to  sea  and  sky  ? 

His  spirit,  alive  to  sound  and  sight  ? 
What  wondrous  tints  on  the  water  lie, — 

Wild,  wavering,  liquid  realm  of  light ! 
Between  two  glories  looms  the  shape 
Of  yon  wood-crested,  cool  green  cape, 
Sloping  all  round  to  foam-laced  ledge, 
And  cavern  and  cove,  at  the  bright  sea's  edge. 


He  makes  for  the  floats  that  mark  the  spots, 
And  rises  and  falls  on  the  sweeping  swells, 
Ships  oars,  and  pulls  his  lobster-pots, 

And  tumbles  the  tangled  claws  and  shells 
'In  the  leaky  bottom;  and  bails  his  skiff; 
While  the  slow  waves  thunder  along  the  cliff, 
And  foam  far  away  where  sun  and  mist 
Edge  all  the  region  with  amethyst; 


I  watch  him,  and  fancy  how,  a  boy, 

Round  these  same  reefs,  in  the  rising  sun, 

He  rowed  and  rocked,  and  shouted  for  joy, 
As  over  the  boat-side,  one  by  one, 


1/4  NEW   ENGLAND 

He  lifted  and  launched  his  lobster-traps, 
And  reckoned  his  gains,  and  dreamed,  perhaps, 
Of  a  future  as  glorious,  vast,  and  bright 
As  the  ocean,  unrolled  in  the  morning  light. 


John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


From  Mogg  Megone    <z>     <^>     <^>     <^>     <z> 

(Safo  River) 

"I  ~K  THO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 

*  *       Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 

Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on 

high, 

Lonely,  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megone  ? 
Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 

While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is  doing, 
Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 

And  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hewing! 
Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river, 
Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 
The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are  seen, 
With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 
While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 
Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth  ! 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


SACO   RIVER  175 

From  Mary  Garvin      *^>     <z>     <z>     <z>     ^> 

(Saco  River) 

T^ROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from 
the  lake  that  never  fails, 

Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Conway's  in- 
tervales; 

There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters 
foam  and  flow, 

As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hun- 
dred years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges, 
dams,  and  mills, 

How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its  free- 
dom of  the  hills, 

Since  traveled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately 
Champernoon 

Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolf's  howl,  the 
trumpet  of  the  loon  ! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds 
of  fire  and  steam, 

Wide- waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him 
like  a  dream. 

Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  back- 
ward far  and  fast 

The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of 
the  past. 


I76  NEW   ENGLAND 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged:  The  sor- 
row and  the  sin, 

The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our 
own  akin; 

And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our 
mothers  sung, 

Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Romance  is 
always  young. 

***** 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Funeral-Tree  of  the  Sokokis        <^     ^x     - 

(Sebago  Lake) 

1756 

A  ROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
*•*•     There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 


SEBAGO  LAKE  I// 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried, — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side: 


NEW   ENGLAND 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  ax  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide, — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tassel ed  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarfed  and  naked  breast. 

'Tis  done:  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 
***** 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


SONGO   RIVER  179 

Songo  River   <^>    *^>    ^>    <^x    *o    <^y    "O 

Connecting  Lake  Sebago  and  Long  Lake 

TVTOWHERE  such  a  devious  stream, 
*  ^     Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 
Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake, 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 

Never  errant  knight  of  old, 
Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold, 
Such  a  winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Never  school-boy  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 
Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 


180  NEW  ENGLAND 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 
Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream  !  thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame; 
For  thou  bidest  here  alone, 
Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 
Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveler  on  his  way: — 

"Traveler,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet ! 
Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste  ! 

"Be  not  like  a  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


CASCO    BAY  l8l 

From  The  Ranger       <z>     <^     <^>     <z>     <^> 

(Casco  Bay) 

TVTOWHERE  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 

*  ^      Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay." 

On  the  grainlands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away. 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 
Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 
Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 


1 82  NEW   ENGLAND 

On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day, 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 

Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


My  Lost  Youth      *^x    <^>    <^.    ^    -o>    < 

(Portland) 

TEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 

Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 


PORTLAND  183 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea- tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 
And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
''A  boy's  will  is  the -wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


1 84  NEW  ENGLAND 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 
And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 

Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 


PORTLAND  185 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart 

weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known 

street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 


l86  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still: 
"A-boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the  thoughts  of   youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell     ^      <^x      < 

(From  The  Tent  on  the  Beach) 
(Harpswell) 

\  \  7HAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 

*  v      The  sundown's  golden  trail  ? 
The  white  flash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 
Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and  Point, 

And  sea-worn  elders  pray, — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 

Is  sailing  up  the  bay ! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O  hundred-harbored  Maine ! 


HARPS  WELL  187 

But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  outstand, 
When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship  looms 

Against  the  dusk  of  land. 


She  rounds  the  headland's  bristling  pines; 

She  threads  the  isle-set  bay; 
No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 
Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 

Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 
Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 

Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 


What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine? 
What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  of  home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign  ? 
No  fort  is  on  thy  silent  deck, 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand; 
No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land ! 


For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 
Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be; 

Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 
She  drifts  again  to  sea. 


1 88  NEW  ENGLAND 

No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 
Nor  sheer  of  veering  side; 

Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 
Against  the  wind  and  tide. 

In  vain  o'er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 

Of  evening  guides  her  in; 
In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  ! 
In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call; 
No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 


Shake,  brown  old  wives,  with  dreary  joy, 

Your  gray-head  hints  of  ill; 
And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  doors  with  woe; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 


From  Wolf  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point, 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 


HARPS  WELL  189 

The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four, 
The  mourners  at  her  stern, — 

And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 
Who  shall  no  more  return ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 

Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath, 
Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death! 


"Chill  as  a  down-east  breeze  should  be," 

The  Book-man  said.    "A  ghostly  touch 
The  legend  has.    I'm  glad  to  see 

Your  flying  Yankee  beat  the  Dutch." 
"Well,  here  is  something  of  the  sort 

Which  one  midsummer  day  I  caught 
In  Narragansett  Bay,  for  lack  of  fish." 

"We  wait,"  the  Traveler  said;  "serve 
hot  or  cold  your  dish." 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


190  NEW   ENGLAND 

From  Mogg  Megone     <z>     <^>     *z>     <^ 

(Penobscot  Bay) 

R  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby, — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  'them  flow. 
The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 
For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  ax  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie, — 


PENOBSCOT   BAY  IQI 

Gems  of  the  waters  ! — with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen, — a  moment  lost, — 

Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed, 

The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There  sleep  Placentia's  group, — and  there 
Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  between, 
Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book. 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air, — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin, 
Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin: 


NEW   ENGLAND 

And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 
Wielding  the  dull  ax  of  Decay, 
Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


A  Maine  Trail 

(Deer  Isle) 


follow,  heart  upon  your  sleeve, 
The  trail,  ateasing  by, 
Past  tasseled  corn  and  fresh-mown  hay, 

Trim  barns  and  farm-house  shy, 
Past  hollyhocks  and  white  well-sweep, 

Through  pastures  bare  and  wild, 
Oh  come  let's  fare  to  the  heart-o-the-wood 
With  the  faith  of  a  little  child. 


Strike  in  by  the  gnarled  way  through  the 
swamp 

Where  late  the  laurel  shone, 
An  intimate  close  where  you  meet  yourself 

And  come  unto  your  own, 


DEER   ISLE  193 

By  bouldered  brook  to  the  hidden  spring 
Where  breath  of  ferns  blows  sweet 

And  swift  birds  break  the  silence  as 
Their  shadows  cross  your  feet. 

Stout-hearted  thrust  through  gold  green  copse 

To  garner  the  woodland  glee, 
To  weave  a  garment  of  warm  delight, 

Of  sunspun  ecstasy; 
'Twill  shield  you  all  winter  from  frosty  eyes, 

'Twill  shield  your  heart  from  cold; 
Such  greens! — how  the  Lord   Himself  loves 
green ! 

Such  sun! — how  He  loves  the  gold! 

Then  on  till  flaming  fireweed 

Is  quenched  in  forest  deep; 
Tread  soft !   The  sumptuous  paven  moss 

Is  spread  for  Dryads'  sleep; 
And  list  ten  thousand  thousand  spruce 

Lift  up  their  voice  to  God — 
We  can  a  little  understand, 

Born  of  the  self-same  sod. 

Oh  come,  the  welcoming  trees  lead  on, 

Their  guests  are  we  to-day; 
Shy  violets  smile,  proud  branches  bow, 

Gay  mushrooms  mark  the  way; 


194  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  silence  is  a  courtesy, 
The  well-bred  calm  of  kings; 

Come  haste  !  the  hour  sets  its  face 
Unto  great  Happenings. 

Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffert. 


To  a  Pine  Tree     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^y     <^>     < 

(Mount  Katahdin) 

"C\\R  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 
*•       Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast; 
Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast, 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermaddened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches; 

Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened, 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches, 

When  whole  mountains  swoop  valeward. 

In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring, 

Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 


MOUNT  KATAHDIN  195 

To  the  slumberer  asleep  'neath  thy  glooming 
Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion, 

Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  mid  their  booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 
Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 

For  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 
With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic, 

While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 

Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate. 

The  wild  storm  makes  his  lair  in  thy  branches, 
Preying  thence  on  the  continent  under; 

Like  a  lion,  crouched  close  on  his  haunches, 
There  awaiteth  his  leap  the  fierce  thunder, 
Growling  low  with  impatience. 

Spite  of  winter,  thou  keep'st  thy  green  glory, 
Lusty  father  of  Titans  past  number  ! 

The  snow-flakes  alone  make  thee  hoary, 
Nestling  close  to  thy  branches  in  slumber, 
And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  splendor  of  winter, 
Mid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed  precipices, 

Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and  splinter, 
And  then  plunge  down  the  muffled  abysses 
In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 


196  NEW   ENGLAND 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  glory  of  summer, 

Gazing  down  on  thy  broad  seas  of  forest, 
On  thy  subjects  that  send  a  proud  murmur 
Up  to  thee,  to  their  sachem,  who  towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


From  Mogg  Megone     <z>     <z>     <z>     *z>     ^> 

(Norridgewock) 

"T*IS  morning  over  Norridgewock, — 

•••      On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there,— 
And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests,  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky, — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness  ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves; 


THE   MERRIMAC   RIVER  197 

The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal,  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


NEW   HAMPSHIRE 
The  Merrimac     -^     <^>     <c^     -x>     <^>     <o 

(The  Merrimac  River) 

OTREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
^    The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  wraters  blend  with  thine. 
There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 


198  NEW  ENGLAND 

As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water- mark; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail, 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale;1 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 
As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 
The  Merrimac  rolled  down  his  flood; 
Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 
Which  channels  vast  Agiochook, 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 
The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

1  Captain  Smith. 


THE   MERRIMAC   RIVER  199 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake/' The  Smile  of  Heaven,"  l 
Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side, — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story;2 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's  waters, — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look! — the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore; 

1  Lake  Winnipisaukee. 

2  Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory  now  called  Cape  Ann  the 
name  of  Tragabizanda. 


200  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  ! — I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood: 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna; 
Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee  ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore; 


PORTSMOUTH  2QI 

And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown, — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Amy  Wentworth    <^    ^>    ^>    <^>    ^ 

(Portsmouth) 

"ER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 

They  dance  so  light  along; 
The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 


H1 


O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 


202  NEW   ENGLAND 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 
But  dreams  the  while  of  one 

Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 

And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 
Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  periled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  ! — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush  of  shame 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 


PORTSMOUTH  203 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine; 
Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown, — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador ! 


204  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Lady  Wentworth      <^x      ^>      <^y      <^>      <^ 

(Pcrlsmouth) 

hundred  years  ago,  and  something  more, 
In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tavern 

door, 

Neat  as  a  pin,  and  blooming  as  a  rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows, 


PORTSMOUTH  2O5 

Just  as  her  cuckoo-clock  was  striking  nine. 
Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 
The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax, 
In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded  arms, 
And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past   his 

prime, 

And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven  him  to  despair. 
For  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,  her  husband,  dressed  in  bottle-green, 
Drive   his   new   Flying   Stage-coach,    four  in 

hand, 

Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the  land, 
And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  on  the  Bay  ! 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 
Were  interrupted  by  a  little  girl, 
Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 
Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders  bare, 
A  thin  slip  of  a  girl,  like  a  new  moon, 
Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 
A  creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 
A  pail  of  water,  dripping,  through  the  street, 
And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 


206  NEW   ENGLAND 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  full  of  grace, — 

The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face; 

The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by; 

The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 

That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and  glanced, 

As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam  danced: 

And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 

Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her  say 

These   words,   or    thought    he   did,   as  plain  as 

day: 

"O  Martha  Hilton  !    Fie  !  how  dare  you  go 
About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  looking  so  !  " 
At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,  and  straight  replied : 
"No  matter  how  I  look;  I  yet  shall  ride 
In  my  own  chariot,  ma'am."    And  on  the  child 
The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 
As  with  her  heavy  burden  she  passed  on, 
Looked  back,  then  turned  the  corner,  and  was 

gone. 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention  was  a  gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and  spun, 
The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank, 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and  sank, 
While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A  portly  person  with  three-cornered  hat, 


PORTSMOUTH  2O/ 

A  crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered  hair, 
And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his  knees, 
Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it  passed, 
Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and  fast; 
For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth,  driving  down 
To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out  to 

sea, 
A  goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a  pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 
Near  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high-road, 
Sequestered  among  trees,  a  noble  pile, 
Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style; 
Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 
And  stacks  of  chimneys  rising  high  in  air, — 
Pandaean  pipes,  on  which  all  winds  that  blew 
Made  mournful  music  the  whole  winter  through. 
Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 
Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry; 
Carved  chimney-pieces,  where  on  brazen  dogs 
Reveled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of  logs; 
Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 
Mysterious  passages,  and  flights  of  stairs; 
And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded  frames, 
The  ancestral  Wentworths  with  Old-Scripture 
names. 


208  NEW   ENGLAND 

Such  was  the  mansion  where  the  great  man  dwelt, 
A  widower  and  childless;  and  he  felt 
The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 
That  like  a  presence  haunted  every  room; 
For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he  could  feel 
The  pain  of  wounds,  that  ache  because  they  heal. 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went, —  seven  in  all, 
And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  the  Hall; 
The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its  chambers 

shed, 

The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows  red; 
The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the  rain ; 
Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare  again; 
Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs  bloomed  and 

died, 

In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the  tide, 
Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships   came  home  from 

sea, 

And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased  to  be. 
And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton  served 
In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unobserved: 
By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent  grew, 
Though  hidden  by  clouds,  her  light  still  shining 

through; 

A  maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or  fine, 
A  servant  who  made  service  seem  divine  ! 
Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look  upon; 
The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses  shone, 


PORTSMOUTH  2OQ 

The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 

If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  before. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the  mill 
Of  Time,  that  never  for  an  hour  stands  still, 
Ground  out  the  Governor's  sixtieth  birthday, 
And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  silver-gray. 
The  robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 
The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  caroling, 
The  restless  swallows  building  in  the  eaves, 
The  golden  buttercups,  the  grass,  the  leaves, 
The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 
All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday  ! 
He  gave  a  splendid  banquet,  served  on  plate, 
Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 
And  was  magnificent  in  everything. 
He  had  invited  all  his  friends  and  peers, — 
The  Pepperels,  the  Langdons,  and  the  Lears, 
The  Sparhawks,  the  Penhallows,  and  the  rest; 
For  why  repeat  the  name  of  every  guest  ? 
But  I  must  mention  one,  in  bands  and  gown, 
The  rector  there,  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown 
Of  the  Established  Church;  with  smiling  face 
He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said  grace; 
And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 
But  ended  as  none  other  I  e'er  knew. 

When  they  had  drunk  the  King,  with  many  a  cheer, 
The  Governor  whispered  in  a  servant's  ear, 


210  NEW   ENGLAND 

Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there  stood 
Within  the  room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 
A  maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 
Youthful  and  beautiful,  and  simply  dressed. 
Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton  ?    It  must  be  ! 
Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she  ! 
Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty  years, 
How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears; 
The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 
Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty  ! 
Yet  scarce  a  guest  perceived  that  she  was  there 
Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  chair, 
Played  slightly  with  his  ruffles,  then  looked 

down, 

And  said  unto  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown: 
"This  is  my  birthday:  it  shall  likewise  be 
My  wedding-day;  and  you  shall  marry  me  !  " 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mystified, 
None  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  replied: 
"  Marry  you  ?    Yes,  that  were  a  pleasant  task, 
Your  Excellency;  but  to  whom  ?  I  ask." 
The  Governor  answered:  "To  this  lady  here;  v 
And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw  near. 
She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his  side. 
The  rector  paused.     The  impatient  Governor 

cried: 

"This  is  the  lady;  do  you  hesitate  ? 
Then  I  command  you  as  Chief  Magistrate." 


ISLES   OF  SHOALS  211 

The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and  clear: 

"Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here," 

And  so  on  to  the  end.    At  his  command 

On  the  fourth  finger  of  her  fair  left  hand 

The  Governor  placed  the  ring;  and  that  was  all: 

Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the  Hall  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Pictures  from  Appledore 

(Isles  of  Shoals) 


A    HEAP  of  bare  and  splintery  crags 
^r~    Tumbled  about  by  lightning  and  frost, 
With  rifts  and  chasms  and  storm-bleached  jags, 
That  wait  and  growl  for  a  ship  to  be  lost; 
No  island,  but  rather  the  skeleton 
Of  a  wrecked  and  vengeance-smitten  one, 
Where,  aeons  ago,  with  half-shut  eye, 
The  sluggish  saurian  crawled  to  die, 
Gasping  under  titanic  ferns; 
Ribs  of  rock  that  seaward  jut, 
Granite  shoulders  and  boulders  and  snags, 
Round  which,  though  the  winds  in  heaven  be  shut, 
The  nightmared  ocean  murmurs  and  yearns, 
Welters,  and  swashes,  and  tosses,  and  turns, 
And  the  dreary  black  seaweed  lolls  and  wags; 


212  NEW   ENGLAND 

Only  rock  from  shore  to  shore, 

Only  a  moan  through  the  bleak  clefts  blown, 

With  sobs  in  the  rifts  where  the  coarse  kelp  shifts, 

Falling  and  lifting,  tossing  and  drifting, 

And  under  all  a  deep,  dull  roar, 

Dying  and  swelling,  forevermore, — 

Rock  and  moan  and  roar  alone, 

And  the  dread  of  some  nameless  thing  unknown, 

These  make  Appledore. 

These  make  Appledore  by  night: 

Then  there  are  monsters  left  and  right; 

Every  rock  is  a  different  monster; 

All  you  have  read  of,  fancied,  dreamed, 

When  you  waked  at  night  because  you  screamed, 

There  they  lie  for  half  a  mile, 

Jumbled  together  in  a  pile, 

And  (though  you  know  they  never  once  stir), 

If  you  look  long,  they  seem  to  be  moving 

Just  as  plainly  as  plain  can  be, 

Crushing  and  crowding,  wading  and  shoving 

Out  into  the  awful  sea, 

Where  you  can  hear  them  snort  and  spout 

With  pauses  between,  as  if  they  were  listening, 

Then  tumult  anon  when  the  surf  breaks  glistening 

In  the  blackness  where  they  wallow  about. 

ii 

All  this  you  would  scarcely  comprehend, 
Should  you  see  the  isle  on  a  sunny  day; 


ISLES   OF   SHOALS  213 

Then  it  is  simple  enough  in  its  way, — 

Two  rocky  bulges,  one  at  each  end, 

With  a  smaller  bulge  and  a  hollow  between ; 

Patches  of  whortleberry  and  bay; 

Accidents  of  open  green, 

Sprinkled  with  loose  slabs  square  and  gray, 

Like  graveyards  for  ages  deserted;  a  few 

Unsocial  thistles;  an  elder  or  two, 

Foamed  over  with  blossoms  white  as  spray; 

And  on  the  whole  island  never  a  tree 

Save  a  score  of  sumachs,  high  as  your  knee, 

That  crouch  in  hollows  where  they  may, 

(The  cellars  where  once  stood  a  village,  men 

say,) 

Huddling  for  warmth,  and  never  grew 
Tall  enough  for  a  peep  at  the  sea; 
A  general  dazzle  of  open  blue; 
A  breeze  always  blowing  and  playing  rat-tat 
With  the  bow  of  the  ribbon  round  your  hat; 
A  score  of  sheep  that  do  nothing  but  stare 
Up  and  down'  at  you  everywhere; 
Three  or  four  cattle  that  chew  the  cud 
Lying  about  in  a  listless  despair; 
A  medrick  that  makes  you  look  overhead 
With  short,  sharp  scream,  as  he  sights  his  prey, 
And,  dropping  straight  and  swift  as  lead, 
Splits  the  water  with  sudden  thud; — 
This  is  Appledore  by  day. 


214  NEW   ENGLAND 


III 

Away  northeast  is  Boone  Island  light; 

You  might  mistake  it  for  a  ship, 

Only  it  stands  too  plumb  upright, 

And  like  the  others  does  not  slip 

Behind  the  sea's  unsteady  brink; 

Though,  if  a  cloud-shade  chance  to  dip 

Upon  it  a  moment,  'twill  suddenly  sink, 

Leveled  and  lost  in  the  darkened  main, 

Till  the  sun  builds  it  suddenly  up  again, 

As  if  with  a  rub  of  Aladdin's  lamp. 

On  the  mainland  you  see  a  misty  camp 

Of  mountains  pitched  tumultuously: 

That  one  looming  so  long  and  large 

Is  Saddleback,  and  that  point  you  see 

Over  yon  low  and  rounded  marge, 

Like  the  boss  of  a  sleeping  giant's  targe 

Laid  over  his  breast,  is  Ossipee; 

That  shadow  there  may  be  Kearsarge; 

That  must  be  Great  Haystack ;  Hove  these  names, 

Wherewith  the  lonely  farmer  tames 

Nature  to  mute  companionship 

With  his  own  mind's  domestic  mood, 

And  strives  the  surly  world  to  clip 

In  the  arms  of  familiar  habitude. 

'Tis  well  he  could  not  contrive  to  make 

A  Saxon  of  Agamenticus: 

He  glowers  there  to  the  north  of  us, 


ISLES   OF  SHOALS  215 

Wrapt  in  his  blanket  of  blue  haze, 

Unconvertibly  savage,  and  scorns  to  take 

The  white  man's  baptism  or  his  ways. 

Him  first  on  shore  the  coaster  divines 

Through  the  early  gray,  and  sees  him  shake 

The  morning  mist  from  his  scalp-lock  of  pines; 

Him  first  the  skipper  makes  out  in  the  west, 

Ere  the  earliest  sunstreak  shoots  tremulous, 

Plashing  with  orange  the  palpitant  lines 

Of  mutable  billow,  crest  after  crest, 

And  murmurs  Agamenticus  ! 

As  if  it  were  the  name  of  a  saint. 

But  is  that  a  mountain  playing  cloud, 

Or  a  cloud   playing    mountain,   just   there,    so 

faint  ? 

Look  along  over  the  low  right  shoulder 
Of  Agamenticus  into  that  crowd 
Of  brassy  thunderheads  behind  it; 
Now  you  have  caught  it,  but,  ere  you  are  older 
By  half  an  hour,  you  will  lose  it,  and  find  it 
A  score  of  times;  while  you  look  'tis  gone, 
And,  just  as  you've  given  it  up,- anon 
It  is  there  again,  till  your  weary  eyes 
Fancy  they  see  it  waver  and  rise, 
With  its  brother  clouds;  it  is  Agiochook, 
There  if  you  seek  not,  and  gone  if  you  look, 
Ninety  miles  off  as  the  eagle  flies. 


2l6  NEW   ENGLAND 


How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 
Butting  against  the  mad  Atlantic, 

When  surge  on  surge  would  heap  enorme 
Cliffs  of  emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lifted  and  lifted,  and  then  let  go 

A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 
A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 

Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under; 

And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierce  below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  fire, 

You  could  feel  its  granite  fibers  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill, 

And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 

Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 
While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and  deep 

And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mightier  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs  and  breakers 
You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth  weather, 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling  together; 
Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island  lies, 
And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise, 
Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 


ISLES   OF  SHOALS  217 

A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white, 

That  glimmer,  and  then  are  out  of  sight, 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 

While   you    crossed    the   gusty    desert   by 

night, 

The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis; 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  lighthouse  slim  and  lone; 
And  whenever  the  weight  of  ocean  is  thrown 
Full  and  far  on  White  Island  head, 

A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  lighthouse  top, 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  outspread, 

Groping  after  the  little  tower, 

That   seems    to    shrink   and    shorten    and 

cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden  drop, 

And  silently  and  fruitlessly 

He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you  stand, 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and  roar, 


2l8  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your  hand, 
As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 

That  was  not  there  a  moment  before, 
Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  heap 

Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 

Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all, 
Or  watch  the  silenter,  steal  thier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more; 
If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the  knees, 
They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig  of  kelp, 
Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help;— 

And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

The  Spaniards'  Graves  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals 

(Isles  of  Shoals) 

SAILORS,  did  sweet  eyes  look  after  you, 
The  day  you  sailed  away  from  sunny  Spain  ? 
Bright  eyes  that  followed  fading  ship  and  crew, 
Melting  in  tender  rain  ? 

Did  no  one  dream  of  that  drear  night  to  be, 
Wild  with  the  wind,  fierce  with  the  stinging 

snow, 

When,  on  yon  granite  point  that  frets  the  sea, 
The  ship  met  her  death-blow  ? 

Fifty  long  years  ago  these  sailors  died: 

None  know  how  many  sleep  beneath  the  waves; 


ISLES   OF  SHOALS  219 

Fourteen  gray  headstones,  rising  side  by  side, 
Point  out  their  nameless  graves, — 

Lonely,  unknown,  deserted,  but  for  me, 

And  the  wild  birds  that  flit  with  mournful  cry, 
And  sadder  winds,  and  voices  of  the  sea 
That  moans  perpetually. 

Wives,  mothers,  maidens,  wistfully,  in  vain 

Questioned  the  distance  for  the  yearning  sail, 
That,  leaning  landward,   should  have  stretched 
again 

White  arms  wide  on  the  gale, 

To  bring  back  their  beloved.    Year  by  year, 
Weary  they  watched,  till  youth  and  beauty 

passed, 

And  lustrous  eyes  grew  dim,  and  age  drew  near, 
And  hope  was  dead  at  last. 

Still  summer  broods  o'er  that  delicious  land, 

Rich,  fragrant,  warm  with  skies  of  golden  glow: 
Live  any  yet  of  that  forsaken  band 
Who  loved  so  long  ago  ? 

O  Spanish  women,  over  the  far  seas, 

Could  I  but  show  you  where  your  dead  repose  ! 
Could  I  send  tidings  on  this  northern  breeze, 
That  strong  and  steady  blows  ! 


220  NEW   ENGLAND 

Dear  dark-eyed  sisters,  you  remember  yet 

These  you  have  lost,  but  you  can  never  know 
One  stands  at  their  bleak  graves  whose  eyes  are  wet 
With  thinking  of  your  woe  ! 

Celia  Thaxter. 

Piscataqua  River    <^>    "Q>    ^    ^>    <o>    <^> 

^HOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 

By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast  ! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 

And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 
Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 

Like  the  red  harbor-buoy; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 
And  with  its  parting  fires 


BEARCAMP  RIVER  221 

Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 
And  burn  the  tapering  spires; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 

From  steeples  slim  and  white, 
And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 

The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River  !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn; 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  am  known  ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp     ^y     <^>     ^> 

(Bear camp  River) 

A    GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 
**•     Of  hills,  the  river  runs, 
As  down  its  long,  green  valleys  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed, 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 


222  NEW   ENGLAND 

Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green, 
From  curve  to  curve  it  slips: 

The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 
Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 

A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown; 
The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  banks  alone. 
Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mulla  grew; 
And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain-cradle  shows, — 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain-wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled: 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 


BEARCAMP   RIVER  223 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this: 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair  ? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings  fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 
What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 

To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 
Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 

On  Ida's  snowy  crown  ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky; 

The  golden  water  pales; 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all: 

The  sunset-fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain-pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


224  NEW   ENGLAND 

From  The  Bridal  of  Pennacook  <z>     <z>    <z> 

(The  White  Mountains) 

"\  "\  7"E  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
**       Through    the    rough    northern    country. 

We  had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 
Of  Winnipiseogee;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to.  the  lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.    We  had  checked  our  steeds, 
Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 
Tasseled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 
Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 
O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.    We  had  passed 
The  high  source  of  the  Saco;  and  bewildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 
The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agiochook  had  seen  the  mountains 


CHOCORUA  225 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and 

thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills, — the  far  sea  of  Casco, 
A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills; 
Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing  the  bank,   whose  grassy  spires   are 

shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.    We  had  tracked 
The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 
Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.    We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire;  and  its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 
The  Merrimac  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

Chocorua      <^y     *^x     <^x     ^>    <o    <^x     xc> 

'  I  "HE  pioneer  of  a  great  company 
•*•      That  wait  behind  him,  gazing  toward  the 

east, — 
Mighty  ones  all,  down  to  the  nameless  least, — 


226  NEW   ENGLAND 

Though  after  him  none  dares  to  press,  where  he 

With  bent  head  listens  to  the  minstrelsy 

Of  far  waves  chanting  to  the  moon,  their  priest. 

What  phantom  rises  up  from  winds  deceased  ? 

What  whiteness  of  the  unapproachable  sea  ? 

Hoary  Chocorua  guards  his  mystery  well: 

He  pushes  back  his  fellows,  lest  they  hear 

The  haunting  secret  he  apart  must  tell 

To  his  lone  self,  in  the  sky-silence  clear. 

A  shadowy,  cloud-cloaked  wraith,  with  shoulders 

bowed, 

He  steals,  conspicuous,  from  the  mountain-crowd. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


Clouds  on  Whiteface    <^>     <^>    -Q>     ^     ^> 

(White jace  Mountain) 

lovingly  the  clouds  caress  his  head, — 
The  mountain- monarch ;  he,  severe  and  hard, 
With  white  face  set  like  flint  horizon- ward; 
They  weaving  softest  fleece  of  gold  and  red, 
And  gossamer  of  airiest  silver  thread, 
To  wrap  his  form,  wind-beaten,  thunder-scarred. 
They  linger  tenderly,  and  fain  would  stay, 
Since  he,  earth-rooted,  may  not  float  away. 
He  upward  looks,  but  moves  not;  wears  their 

hues; 
Draws  them  unto  himself;  their  beauty  shares; 


PEMIGEWASSET  RIVER  227 

And  sometimes  his  own  semblance  seems  to  lose, 
His  grandeur  and  their  grace  so  interfuse; 
And  when  his  angels  leave  him  unawares, 
A  sullen  rock,  his  brow  to  heaven  he  bares. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


My  Mountain        <^>    ^     <^>    <^> 

(Pemigewasset  River) 

SHUT  my  eyes  in  the  snow-fall 
And  dream  a  dream  of  the  hills. 
The  sweep  of  a  host  of  mountains, 
The  flash  of  a  hundred  rills, 


I 


For  a  moment  they  crowd  my  vision; 

Then,  moving  in  troops  along, 
They  leave  me  one  still  mountain-picture, 

The  murmur  of  one  river's  song. 

'Tis  the  musical  Pemigewasset, 
That  sings  to  the  hemlock-trees 

Of  the  pines  on  the  Profile  Mountain, 
Of  the  stony  Face  that  sees, 

Far  down  in  the  vast  rock-hollows 

The  waterfall  of  the  Flume, 
The  blithe  cascade  of 'the  Basin, 

And  the  deep  Pool's  lonely  gloom. 


228  NEW   ENGLAND 

All  night,  from  the  cottage-window 

I  can  hear  the  river's  tune; 
But  the  hushed  air  gives  no  answer 

Save  the  hemlock's  sullen  rune. 

A  lamb's  bleat  breaks  through  the  stillness, 
And  into  the  heart  of  night. — 

Afar  and  around,  the  mountains, 
Veiled  watchers,  expect  the  light. 

Then  up  comes  the  radiant  morning 
To  smile  on  their  vigils  grand; 

Still  muffled  in  cloudy  mantles 
Do  their  stately  ranges  stand  ? 

It  is  not  the  lofty  Haystacks 

Piled  up  by  the  great  Notch-Gate, 

Nor  the  glow  of  the  Cannon  Mountain, 
That  the  Dawn  and  I  await, 

To  loom  out  of  northern  vapors; 

But  a  shadow,  a  penciled  line, 
That  grows  to  an  edge  of  opal 

Where  earth-light  and  heaven-light  shine. 

Now  rose-tints  bloom  from  the  purple; 

Now  the  blue  climbs  over  the  green; 
Now,  bright  in  its  bath  of  sunshine, 

The  whole  grand  Shape  is  seen. 


PEMIGEWASSET   RIVER 

Is  it  one,  or  unnumbered  summits, — 

The  Vision  so  high,  so  fair, 
Hanging  over  the  singing  River 

In  the  magical  depths  of  air  ? 

Ask  not  the  name  of  my  mountain  ! 

Let  it  rise  in  its  grandeur  lone; 
Be  it  one  of  a  mighty  thousand, 

Or  a  thousand  blent  in  one. 

Would  a  name  evoke  new  splendor 
From  its  wrapping  and  folds  of  light, 

Or  a  line  of  the  weird  rock-writing 
Make  plainer  to  mortal  sight? 

You  have  lived  and  learnt  this  marvel: 
That  the  holiest  joy  that  came 

From  its  beautiful  heaven  to  bless  you, 
Nor  needed  nor  found  a  name. 

Enough,  on  the  brink  of  the  river 
Looking  up  and  away,  to  know 

That  the  Hill  loves  the  Pemigewasset. 
And  broods  o'er  its  murmurous  flow. 


Perhaps,  if  the  Campton  meadows 
Should  attract  your  pilgrim  feet 

Up  the  summer  road  to  the  mountains, 
You  may  chance  my  dream  to  meet: — 


229 


230  NEW   ENGLAND 

Either  mine,  or  one  more  wondrous. 

Or  perhaps  you  will  look,  and  say 
You  behold  only  rocks  and  sunshine, 

Be  it  dying  or  birth  of  day. 

Though  you  find  but  the  stones  that  build  it, 
I  shall  see  through  the  snow-fall  still, 

Hanging  over  the  Pemigewasset, 
My  glorified,  dream-crowned  Hill. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

From  Comrades l     <^y    <^    <^x    ^>    ^>    ^> 

(Read  at  the  Sixtieth  Annual  Convention  of  the  Psi  Upsilon  Frater- 
nity at  Dartmouth  College,  Hanover,  N.  H.,  May  18,  1893.) 

Again  among  the  hills  ! 

The  shaggy  hills  ! 

The  clear  arousing  air  comes  like  a  call 

Of  bugle  notes  across  the  pines,  and  thrills 

My  heart  as  if  a  hero  had  just  spoken. 

Again  among  the  hills  ! 

The  jubilant  unbroken 

Long  dreaming  of  the  hills  ! 

Far  off,  Ascutney  smiles  as  one  at  peace; 

And  over  all 

The  golden  sunlight  pours  and  fills 

The  hollow  of  the  earth,  like  a  god's  joy. 

Again  among  the  hills  ! 

The  tranquil  hills 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  Inc.,  Pub- 
lishers. 


HANOVER  231 

That  took  me  as  a  boy 

And  filled  my  spirit  with  the  silences  ! 

0  indolent,  far-reaching  hills,  that  lie 

Secure  in  your  own  strength,  and  take  your  ease 
Like  careless  giants  'neath  the  summer  sky — 
What  is  it  to  you,  O  hills, 
That  anxious  men  should  take  thought  for  the 

morrow  ? 

What  has  your  might  to  do  with  thought  or  sorrow 
Or  cark  and  cumber  of  conflicting  wills  ? 
Lone  Pine,  that  thron'st  thyself  upon  the  height, 
Aloof  and  kingly,  overlooking  all, 
Yet  uncompanioned,  with  the  Day  and  Night 
For  pageant  and  the  winds  for  festival  ! 

1  was  thy  minion  once,  and  now  renew 
Mine  ancient  fealty — 

To  that  which  shaped  me  still  remaining  true, 
And  through  allegiance  only  growing  free. 

So  with  no  foreign  nor  oblivious  heart, 
Dartmouth,  I  seek  once  more  thy  granite  seat; 
Nor  only  of  thy  hills  I  feel  me  part, 
But  each  encounter  of  the  village  street, 
The  ball-players  on  the  campus,  and  their 

shouting, 

The  runners  lithe  and  fleet, 
The  noisy  groups  of  idlers,  and  the  songs, 
The  laughter  and  the  flouting — 


232  NEW   ENGLAND 

Spectacled  comic  unrelated  beings 

With  book  in  hand, 

Who  'mid  all  stir  of  life,  all  whirl  of  rhythms, 

All  strivings,  lovings,  kissings,  dreamings,  seeings 

Still  live  apart  in  some  strange  land 

Of  aorists  and  ohms  and  logarithms — 

All  these  are  mine;  I  greet  them  with  a  shout. 

Whether  they  will  or  no,  they  greet  me  too. 

Grave  teachers  and  the  students'  jocund  rout, 

Class-room  and  tennis  court,  alike  they  knew 

My  step  once,  and  they  cannot  shut  me  out. 

But  dearer  than  the  silence  of  the  hills, 

And  greater  than  the  wisdom  of  the  years, 

Is  man  to  man,  indifferent  of  ills, 

Triumphant  over  fears, 

To  meet  the  world  with  loyal  hearts  that  need 

No  witness  of  their  friendship  but  the  deed. 

Such  comrades  they,  the  gallant  Musketeers, 

Wrought  by  the  master- workman  of  Romance, 

Who  foiled  the  crafty  Cardinal  and  saved 

A  Queen  for  episode, — who  braved 

The  utmost  malice  of  mischance, 

The  utmost  enmity  of  human  foes, 

But  still  rode  on  across  the  fields  of  France, 

Reckless  of  knocks  and  blows, 

Careless  of  sins  or  woes, 

Incurious  of  each  other's  hearts,  but  sure 

That  each  for  each  would  vanquish  or  endure. 


HANOVER  233 

Praise  be  to  you,  O  hills,  that  you  can  breathe 

Into  our  souls  the  secret  of  your  power  ! 

He  is  no  child  of  yours,  he  never  knew 

Your  spirit — were  he  born  beneath 

Your  highest  crags — who  bears  not  every  hour 

The  might,  the  calm  of  you 

About  him,  that  sublime 

Unconsciousness  of  all  things  great, — 

Built  on  himself  to  stand  the  shocks  of  Time 

And  scarred  not  shaken  by  the  bolts  of  Fate. 

And  praise  to  thee,  my  college,  that  the  lore 

Of  ages  may  be  pondered  at  thy  feet ! 

That  for  thy  sons  each  sage  and  seer  of  yore 

His  runes  may  still  repeat  ! 

Praise  that  thou  givest  to  us  understanding 

To  wring  from  the  world's  heart 

New    answers    to    new    doubts — to    make    the 

landing 

On  shores  that  have  no  chart  ! 
Praise  for  the  glory  of  knowing, 
And  greater  glory  of  the  power  to  know  ! 
Praise  for  the  faith  that  doubts  would  overthrow, 
And   which   through    doubts   to  larger  faith  is 

growing  ! 

The  sons  of  science  are  a  wrangling  throng, 
Yet  through  their  labor  what  the  sons  of  song 
Have  wrought  in  clay,  at  last 
In  the  bronze  is  cast, 
And  wind  and  rain  no  more  can  work  it  wrong. 


234  NEW   ENGLAND 

But  more  than  strength  and  more  than  truth 

Oh  praise  the  love  of  man  and  man  ! 

Praise  it  for  pledge  of  our  eternal  youth  ! 

Praise  it  for  pulse  of  that  great  gush  that  ran 

Through  all  the  worlds,  when  He 

Who  made  them  clapped  his  hands  for  glee, 

And   laughed    Love   down    the   cycles    of    the 

stars. 

Praise  all  that  plants  it  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
All  that  protects  it  from  the  hoof  that  mars, 
The  weed  that  stifles;  praise  the  rain 
That  rains  upon  it  and  the  sun  that  shines, 
Till  it  stretch  skyward  with  its  laden  vines  ! 

Richard  Hovey. 


Monadnock  from  Afar  <^x    <^>    <^x    <^> 

(Ml.  Monadnock) 

"T^ARK  flower  of  Cheshire  garden, 
^-*     Red  evening  duly  dyes 
Thy  sombre  head  with  rosy  hues 

To  fix  far-gazing  eyes. 
Well  the  Planter  knew  how  strongly 

Works  thy  form  on  human  thought; 
I  muse  what  secret  purpose  had  he 

To  draw  all  fancies  to  this  spot. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


MONADNOCK  235 

From  Monadnock    <^>    <z>    <z>    <z>    <^>    <^> 

|N  the  summit  as  I  stood, 

O'er  the  floor  of  plain  and  flood 
Seemed  to  me,  the  towering  hill 
Was  not  altogether  still, 
But  a  quiet  sense  conveyed; 
If  I  err  not,  thus  it  said: — 

"Many  feet  in  summer  seek, 

Oft,  my  far-appearing  peak; 

In  the  dreaded  winter-time, 

None  save  dappling  shadows  climb 

Under  clouds,  my  lonely  head, 

Old  as  the  sun,  old  almost  as  the  shade. 

And  comest  thou 

To  see  strange  forests  and  new  snow, 

And  tread  uplifted  land  ? 

And  leavest  thou  thy  lowland  race, 

Here  amid  clouds  to  stand  ? 

And  wouldst  be  my  companion 

Where  I  gaze,  and  still  shall  gaze, 

Through  hoarding  nights  and  spending  days, 

When  forests  fall,  and  man  is  gone, 

Over  tribes  and  over  times, 

At  the  burning  Lyre, 

Nearing  me, 

With  its  stars  of  northern  fire, 

In  many  a  thousand  years  ? 


236  NEW    ENGLAND 

"  Every  morn  I  lift  my  head, 

See  New  England  underspread, 

South  from  Saint  Lawrence  to  the  Sound, 

From  Katskill  east  to  the  sea-bound. 

Anchored  fast  for  many  an  age, 

I  await  the  bard  and  sage, 

Who,  in  large  thoughts,  like  fair  pearl-seed, 

Shall  string  Monadnock  like  a  bead." 

***** 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


VERMONT 


The  Green  Mountains    <^>    ^>    ^    <^>    <o 

V7E  mountains,  that  far  off  lift  up  your  heads, 
-*•      Seen  dimly  through  their  canopies  of  blue, 
The  shade  of  my  unrestful  spirit  sheds 
Distance-created  beauty  over  you ; 
I  am  not  well  content  with  this  far  view; 
How  may  I  know  what  foot  of  loved  one  treads 
Your   rocks   moss-grown   and   sun-dried   torrent 

beds? 

We  should  love  all  things  better,  if  we  knew 
What  claims  the  meanest  have  upon  our  hearts; 
Perchance   even  now  some  eye,  that  would  be 

bright 


SUNDERLAND  237 

To  meet  my  own,  looks  on  your  mist-robed  forms; 
Perchance  your  grandeur  a  deep  joy  imparts 
To  souls  that  have  encircled  mine  with  light, — 
O  brother-heart,  with  thee  my  spirit  warms  ! 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


The  Oldenburys  of  Sunderland    <^>    <^>     <^x 

(Sunderland) 

'T'URN  again  into  the  wooded  Hollow, 
•*-      By  the  fabled  Tory-hunter's  well, 
Where  the  strange  and  bookish  Oldenburys 
On  their  wasted  patrimony  dwell. 

Rowland  plows  to  the  sound  of  Celia's  fiddle: 
Celia  sews  with  her  Milton  on  her  knee; 

Young  Miranda  goes  forth  to  gather  berries 
Singing  the  song  of  Ariel  by  the  sea. 

When  the  dusk  falls  downward  from  the  landslide, 
Through  the  bush  they  drive  the  cattle  home; 

They  see  the  shadows  of  the  first  Crusaders, 
And  hear  the  Sibyl  at  the  gates  of  Rome. 

In  the  northward,  in  the  southward  village 
Brisk  steps  hasten,  the  busy  hours  fly  fast; 

But  the  clocks  are  slow  in  Oldenbury  Hollow, 
Where  they  chime  with  the  voices  of  the  past. 
Sarah  N.  Cleghorn. 


238  NEW   ENGLAND 

From  Ticonderoga     ^>     ^>     <z>      <^>     < 

(Lake  Cham  plain) 

II 

Who  glide  so  dim  upon  the  lake 

Ticonderoga  ? 
Over  their  dreaming  prow 
The  morning  star 
Blazes  their  goal;  but  now — 
More  dusk  and  far — 
What  old  world  dwindles  in  their  wake, 

Ticonderoga  ? 

HTHE  fleur-de-lis,  the  fleur-de-lis! 
-*•      The  white  Chevalier — lo,  'tis  he  ! 
His  pale  canoe  along  the  tide 
The  painted  Huron  paddles  guide 
With  dumb,  subdued  elation; 
The  wild  dawn  stains  their  bodies  bare, 
The  wild  dawn  gleams  about  his  hair; 
Steeped  in  his  soul's  adventure,  lie 
The  valleys  of  discovery — 
The  peaks  of  expectation. 
Midway  the  lake  they  pause:  on  high 
His  arm  he  raises  solemnly. 
Above  the  lilies,  that  emboss 
His  azure  banner,  and  the  pied 
Algonquin  plumes  that  float  beside, 
He  holds  the  shining  cross. 
"Champlain  !  " — The  placid  word 
The  mute  air  hath  not  stirred. 


LAKE   CHAMPLAIN  239 

Touched  by  the  morning's  wing, 

The  ruddied  waters,  quickening, 

Alone  are  kindled  by  that  christening. 

Quaint  splendors  mass 

Within  the  lake's  clear  glass, 

And  liquid  lilies  run 

In  rose  gules  of  the  rising  sun. 

Naught  else  there  of  acclaim 

Greets  the  great  Chevalier's  name, 

Save  where  the  water-fowl's  primeval  broods 

Awake  Bulwagga's  lone  and  echoing  solitudes. 

in 

What  strident  horror  breaks  thy  spell, 

Ticonderoga  ? 
What  long  and  ululating  yell  ? 

The  Iroquois:  in  covert  glade 

They  build  their  pine-bough  palisade, 

And  weave  in  trance 

Their  sachem  dance 

With  hawk-screams  of  their  heathen  wars, 

Till  naked  on  my  shrilling  shores 

Mohawk  and  wild  Algonquin  meet  • 

And  taunt,  with  fleer  and  blown  conceit, 

Each  other's  painted  ranks: 

But,  lo  where  now  their  flanks 

Give  way  and  reel  ! 

And  'mid  the  silent  sagamores, 


240  NEW  ENGLAND 

In  shining  cuish  and  casque  of  steel, 
Before  them  all 
Stands  bright  and  tall, 
With  gauntlet  clenched  and  helmet  vised, 
The  calm  knight-errant  of  the  Christ; 
Then,  in  sign  miraculous, 
Levels  his  arquebus 

And,  charged  with  bullets  from  his  bandoleer, 
Looses  the  bolt  of  preternatural  thunder. 
A  sachem  falls:  the  wild  men  stare  in  wonder 
And  mazed  fear; 

Once  more  his  engine  peals,  and  hurls  the  fire 
Whose  flash  shall  kindle  continents  to  ire. 
***** 

Percy  MacKaye. 

RHODE   ISLAND 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal 1  ^>     ^> 

(Rhode  Island) 

F  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 
With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame  grew 

bright,— 

The  many-colored  flame, — and  played  and  leaped, 
I  thought  of  rainbows  and  the  Northern  Light, 
Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Report, 
And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission 
of  D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


RHODE  ISLAND  241 

At  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 

The  mineral  fuel;  on  a  summer  day 
I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And  scratched  by  dwarf-oaks  in  the  hollow 

way; 
Now    dragged    through   sand,   now  jolted   over 

stone, — 
A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 

And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hollower  grew 
The    deep-worn   path,    and,    horror-struck,    I 
thought 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ? 
This  long,  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot  ? 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright; 

I  looked, — but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 
At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay; 

Smooth,  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 
As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay; 

Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 

And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped, — its  heavy  sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble  field, — the  tall  maize  stood 

Dark  in  its  summer  growth,  and  shook  its  leaves, 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young 
wood, — 


242  NEW   ENGLAND 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 

The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to  door 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 

Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er, — 

Rogue's  Island  once, — but,  when  the  rogues  were 
dead, 

Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 

Beautiful  island!  then  it  only  seemed 

A  lovely  stranger, — it  has  grown  a  friend. 

I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 
How  soon  that  bright  beneficent  isle  would  send 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 

To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite  !  that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slumber  long; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean  thee 
wrong. 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate  thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they   did   wrong   thee   foully, — they   who 

mocked 
Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not  burn ; 


RHODE  ISLAND  243 

Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 

And  grew  profane, — and  swore,  in  bitter  scorn, 
That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 
And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.    I  pause  to  state, 
That  I  too  have  seen  greatness,  even  I, — 

Shook  hands  with  Adams, — stared  at  La  Fayette, 
When,  bareheaded,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 

He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 

For  which  three  cheers  burst  from  the  mob  before 
him. 


And  I  have  seen — not  many  months  ago — 
An  eastern  governor  in  chapeau  bras 

And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show  ! 

Ride  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah  ! 

How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan  i 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were  won  ! 


'Twas  a  great  governor, — thou  too  shalt  be 
Great  in  thy  turn, — and  wide  shall  spread  thy 
fame, 

And  swiftly;  farthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold  New  Brunswick  gladden  at  thy  name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 

That  sends  the  Boston  folks  their  cod  shall  smile. 


244  NEW   ENGLAND 

For  thou  shalt  forge  vast  railways,  and  shalt  heat 
The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 

Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 
Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive, 

Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 

And  south  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters, — boats  that  for  a  guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre, — and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 

As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  Winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave; 

Thou,  from  that  "ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


The  Skeleton  in  Armor       <^>     <o     <^> 

(Newport) 

"  CPEAK  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest  ! 
^  Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 
Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 


NEWPORT  245 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 


246  NEW   ENGLAND 

That  the  poor,  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led, 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 


NEWPORT  247 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 


248  .         NEW  ENGLAND 

And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 

So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 

From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 
When  the  wind  failed  us; 


NEWPORT  249 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter  ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 


250  NEW   ENGLAND 

Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  seaward. 

"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another  ! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful  ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

0,  death  was  grateful  ! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland  !  skoal !  " 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


NEWPORT  251 

A  Newport  Romance  ^>     *o>     <^>     <^x     <^x 

HPHEY  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 
•*•      (I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me) ; 
But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 
Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French: 
It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 

When   he  sailed   away   from   her  arms — poor 

wench — 
With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

I  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 

Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 

At  what  golden-laced  speech  of  those  modish 

days 
She  listened — the  mischief  take  her  ! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave;  and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night,  when  the  sea-fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Round  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 

Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
From  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 


252  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  filled  that  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story;  yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ? 


I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night, — 

Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea; 
And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 

In  courtesy,  visit  me. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two; 

And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 
But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 

And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 

The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 
From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall.    Small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 


NEWPORT  253 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  o'erwrought 
With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret  ? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odor  of  mignonette  ! 

I  open  the  window,  and  seem  almost — 
So  still  lies  the  ocean — to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  Great  Gulf  artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat. 

In  my  neighbor's  windows  the  gas-lights  flare, 
As  the  dancers  swing  in  a  waltz  of  Strauss; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 

And  no  odor  of  mignonette  there  is 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn; 

And  mayhap  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  is  bora. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle,  sad  perfume, 
As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 

The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 
Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 

And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 
That  only  the  sweet  remains. 


254  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 
And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door; 

For  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  are  laid, 
She  is  viewless  forevermore. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 
Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 

I  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 
She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night  ! 

Bret  Harte. 

The  Romance  of  a  Rose       <^>    ^>    ^>    ^> 

(Newport) 

""PIS  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago, 
•*•      Since  the  day  that  the  Count  de  Rocham- 

beau — 

Our  ally  against  the  British  crown — 
Met  Washington  in  Newport  town. 

'Twas  the  month  of  March,  and  the  air  was  chill, 
But  bareheaded  over  Aquidneck  hill, 
Guest  and  host  they  took  their  way, 
While  on  either  side  was  the  grand  array 

Of  a  gallant  army,  French  and  fine, 
Ranged  three  deep  in  a  glittering  line; 
And  the  French  fleet  sent  a  welcome  roar 
Of  a  hundred  guns  from  Conanicut  shore. 


NEWPORT  255 

And  the  bells  rang  out  from  every  steeple, 
And  from  street  to  street  the  Newport  people 
Followed  and  cheered,  with  a  hearty  zest, 
De  Rochambeau  and  his  honored  guest. 

And  women  out  of  the  windows  leant, 
And  out  of  the  Windows  smiled  and  sent 
Many  a  coy  admiring  glance 
To  the  fine  young  officers  of  France. 

And  the  story  goes,  that  the  belle  of  the  town 
Kissed  a  rose  and  flung  it  down 
Straight  at  the  feet  of  De  Rochambeau; 
And  the  gallant  marshal,  bending  low, 

Lifted  it  up  with  a  Frenchman's  grace, 
And  kissed  it  back,  with  a  glance  at  the  face 
Of  the  daring  maiden  where  she  stood, 
Blushing  out  of  her  silken  hood. 

That  night  at  the  ball,  still  the  story  goes, 
The  Marshal  of  France  wore  a  faded  rose 
In  his  gold-laced  coat;  but  he  looked  in  vain 
For  the  giver's  beautiful  face  again. 

Night  after  night  and  day  after  day 
The  Frenchman  eagerly  sought,  they  say, 
At  feast,  or  at  church,  or  along  the  street, 
For  the  girl  who  flung  her  rose  at  his  feet. 


256  NEW   ENGLAND 

And  she,  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
Was  speeding  farther  and  farther  away 
From  the  fatal  window,  the  fatal  street, 
Where  her  passionate  heart  had  suddenly  beat 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  cool  control 

A  Puritan  teaches  to  heart  and  soul; 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  wrathful  eyes 

Of  one  who  had  watched  in  dismayed  surprise 

From  the  street  below;  and  taking  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage, 
He  swore,  this  old  colonial  squire, 
That  before  the  daylight  should  expire, 

This  daughter  of  his,  with  her  wit  and  grace, 
And  her  dangerous  heart  and  her  beautiful  face, 
Should  be  on  her  way  to  a  sure  retreat, 
Where  no  rose  of  hers  could  fall  at  the  feet 

Of  a  cursed  Frenchman,  high  or  low; 
And  so  while  the  Count  de  Rochambeau 
In  his  gold-laced  coat  wore  a  faded  flower, 
And  awaited  the  giver  hour  by  hour, 

She  was  sailing  away  in  the  wild  March  night 
On  the  little  deck  of  the  sloop  Delight; 
Guarded  even  in  the  darkness  there 
By  the  wrathful  eyes  of  a  jealous  care. 


NEWPORT  257 

Three  weeks  after,  a  brig  bore  down 
Into  the  harbor  of  Newport  town, 
Towing  a  wreck, — 'twas  the  sloop  Delight, 
Off  Hampton  rocks,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  the  land  she  sought,  she  and  her  crew 
And  all  on  board  of  her,  full  in  view 
Of  the  storm-bound  fishermen  over  the  bay, 
Went  to  their  doom  on  that  April  day. 

When  Rochambeau  heard  the  terrible  tale, 
He  muttered  a  prayer,  for  a  moment  grew  pale; 
Then  "Mon  Dieu,"  he  exclaimed,  "so  my  fine 

romance 

From  beginning  to  end  is  a  rose  and  a  glance." 

Nora  Perry. 


The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport      <^>      <^> 

T  TOW  strange  it  seems  !    These  Hebrews  in 
•*•  *•    their  graves, 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 
Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 

At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down  ! 

The  trees  are  white  with  dust,  that  o'er  their  sleep 
Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south-wind's 
breath, 


258  NEW   ENGLAND 

While  underneath  these  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial-place, 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown  down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's  base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"Blessed  be  God  !  for  he  created  Death  ! " 
The  mourners  said,  "and  Death  is  rest  and 
peace"; 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

"And  giveth  Life  that  nevermore  shall  cease." 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence  break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And  not  neglected;  for  a  hand  unseen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 
Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remembrance 
green. 


NEWPORT  259 

How  came  they  here  ?    What  burst  of  Christian 
hate, 

What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 
Drove  o'er  the  sea — that  desert  desolate — 

These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and  mire; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened  bread 
And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 

The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 

And  slaked  its  thirst  with  Marah  of  their  tears. 

Anathema  maranatha  !  was  the  cry 
That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from  street  to 

street ; 
At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned  by  Chris- 
tian feet. 

Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with  them  through  the  world  where'er 

they  went; 
Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the  sand, 

And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 


260  NEW  ENGLAND 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and  vast 
Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets  rose  sublime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read, 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah  !  what  once  has  been  shall  be  no  more  ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 
Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 

And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

The  Island  <^x     ^     <^x     <^>     <^>     <^y     "^> 

(Block  Island  (Manisees)) 

'"PHE  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 
-*-      Along  its  solitary  shore, 

Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar. 
Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her 

home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 
And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 


NORWICH  261 

The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently, 
How  beautiful  !  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side; 

From  out  the  trees  the  sabbath  bell 

Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sounds  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  amongst  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale; 

Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale ; 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

Richard  Henry  Dana. 

CONNECTICUT 
The  Inland  City  ^>     ^>     -o>     <^y     *^     ^> 

(Norwich) 

/^UARDED  by  circling  streams  and  wooded 
^-*     mountains, 

Like  sentinels  round  a  queen, 
Dotted  with  groves  and  musical  with  fountains, 

The  city  lies  serene. 


262  NEW   ENGLAND 

Not  far  away  the  Atlantic  tide  diverges, 

And,  up  the  southern  shore 
Of  gray  New  England,  rolls  in  shortened  surges, 

That  murmur  evermore. 

The  fairy  city  !  not  for  frowning  castle 

Do  I  extol  her  name, 
Not  for  the  gardens  and  the  domes  palatial 

Of  oriental  fame; 

Yet  if  there  be  one  man  who  will  not  rally, 

One  man,  who  sayeth  not 
That  of  all  cities  in  the  Eastern  valley 

Ours  is  the  fairest  spot; 

Then  let  him  roam  beneath  those  elms  gigantic, 

Or  idly  wander  where 
Shetucket  flows  meandering,  where  Yantic 

Leaps  through  the  cloven  air; 

Gleaming  from  rock  to  rock  with  sunlit  motion, 

Then  slumbering  in  the  cove ; 
So  sinks  the  soul,  from  Passion's  wild  devotion, 

To  the  deep  calm  of  Love. 

And  journey  with  me  to  the  village  olden, 

Among  whose  devious  ways 
Are  mossy  mansions,  rich  with  legends  golden 

Of  early  forest  days; 


NORWICH  263 

Elysian  time  !  when,  by  the  rippling  water, 

Or  in  the  woodland  groves, 
The  Indian  warrior  and  the  Sachem's  daughter 

Whispered  their  artless  loves; 

Legends  of  fords,  where  Uncas  made  his  transit, 

Fierce  for  the  border  war, 
And  drove  all  day  the  alien  Narragansett 

Back  to  his  haunts  afar; 

Tales  of  the  after-time,  when  scant  and  humble 

Grew  the  Mohegan  band, 
And  Tracy,  Griswold,  Huntington,  and  Trumbull 

Were  judges  in  the  land. 

So  let  the  ca viler  feast  on  old  tradition, 

And  then  at  sunset  climb 
Up  yon  green  hill,  where  on  his  broadened  vision 

May  burst  the  view  sublime  ! 

The  city  spires,  with  stately  power  impelling 

The  soul  to  look  above, 
And  peaceful  homes,  in  many  a  rural  dwelling, 

Lit  up  with  flames  of  love; — 

And  then  confess,  nor  longer  idly  dally, 

While  sinks  the  lingering  sun, 
That  of  all  cities  in  the  Eastern  valley 

Ours  is  the  fairest  one. 

***** 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


264  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth  <^>     ^>     <^>     <^> 

(Killingworth) 

TT  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
•^     The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building  sing 
Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 

Whom  Saxon  Caedmon  calls  the  Blithe-heart 

King; 
When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand, 

The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 
And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 
And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their 
glee; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be; 

And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said: 

"  Give  us,  0  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread  !  " 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  and 
sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet; 

Or  quarreling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 


KILLINGWORTH  265 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with  dread- 
ful words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 


And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 
To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 

Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 
Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 

And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shreds; 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 

Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 

The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight  ! 
Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 

Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 
Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who  said. 


266  NEW   ENGLAND 

"A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  ! " 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year  to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the  Will; 

His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondack  hill; 

E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural  lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 

Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass. 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as  snow; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow : 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before; 

He  seemed  the  incarnate  "Well,  I  told  you  so ! " 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town 


KILLINGWORTH  267 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound; 

111   fared   it  with    the    birds,   both   great    and 

small ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 


When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart, 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 
Looked  round   bewildered   on  the  expectant 
throng; 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

"Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 


268  NEW  ENGLAND 

"The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray, 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 

"You   slay   them  all!    and  wherefore?   for  the 
gain 

Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 
Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 

Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 
Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain ! 

Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 
As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 
Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

"Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who 

taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys. 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught ! 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven ! 


K1LLINGWORTH  269 

"  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 
'Tis  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

"Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams ! 
Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 
The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door? 

"What!  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  roundelay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake? 

"You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but  know, 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 


270  NEW   ENGLAND 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 

Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

"How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 
The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 

When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your  speech, 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach?" 

With  this  he  closed;  and  through  the  audience 
went 

A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 

Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves; 
Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 

Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in  beeves. 
The  birds  were  doomed;  and,  as  the  record  shows 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 


KILLING  WORTH  271 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  applause ; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than 

each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 

O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy ! 


And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began; 

O'er  fields   and   orchards,  and  o'er  woodland 

crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their 

breasts, 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests; 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals;  the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No   foe   to    check    their    march,    till    they  had 

made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 


272  NEW  ENGLAND 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the  town, 
Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 

Slaughtered  the  Innocents.     From  the  trees  spun 

down 
The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 

Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry; 

They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 

Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again; 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day  book. 

A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with   their 

shame, 

And    drowned    themselves   despairing   in    the 
brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 


KILLINGWORTH  273 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue ! 

A  wagon,  o'erarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 

All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were 
brought, 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  pribons,  sought 

In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best, 
Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 

Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 
While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard  ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  caroled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


274  NEW   ENGLAND 

The  Phantom  Ship      <^>     <^>     ^     «Q> 

(New  Haven) 

TN  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 
•*•     Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 
That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 
And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"O  Lord  !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure,"— 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine, — 

"To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  !  " 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
And  under  his  breath  said  he, 

"This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty, 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  !  " 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 


NEW  HAVEN  275 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 
That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 
He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered: — 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 
And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun  ! 


276  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 

Each  said  unto  his  friend, 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 
He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


NEW   YORK,    NEW   JERSEY, 

PENNSYLVANIA,  AND 

DELAWARE 

City  of  glorious  days, 

Of  hope,  and  labor,  and  mirth, 
With  room,  and  to  spare,  on  thy  splendid  bays 

For  the  ships  of  all  the  earth  ! 

R.  W.  Older. 

[Pennsylvania]  lovely  even  then 
With  its  fair  women  and  its  stately  men 
Gracing  the  forest  court  of  William  Penn. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 


NEW  YORK 
Hendrik's  Prophecy    <^x     <^>     <^x     <^>     <^> 

The  words  of  the  refrain  in  this  song  are  those  used  by  Henry 
Hudson  himself  when  he  first  brought  his  ship  through  the  Narrows, 
and  saw  the  Bay  of  New  York. 

T^LOW  fair  beside  the  Palisades,  flow  Hudson, 

•*•       fair  and  free, 

By  proud  Manhattan's  shore  of  ships  and  green 

Hoboken's  tree; 
So  fair  yon  haven  clasped  its  isles,  in  such  a  sunset 

gleam, 
When  Hendrik  and  his  sea- worn  tars  first  sounded 

up  the  stream, 
And  climbed  this  rocky  palisade,  and  resting  on 

its  brow, 
Passed  round  the  can  and  gazed  awhile  on  shore 

and  wave  below; 
And  Hendrik  drank  with  hearty  cheer,  and  loudly 

then  cried  he: 
"  "Pis  a  good  land  to  fall  in  with,  men,  and  a 

pleasant  land  to  see  !  " 
Then    something — ah,    'twas    prophecy  ! — came 

glowing  to  his  brain: 
He  seemed  to  see  the  mightier  space  between  the 

oceans  twain, 

279 


280  NEW  YORK 

Where  other  streams  by  other  strands  run  through 

their  forests  fair, 
From  bold  Missouri's  lordly  tide  to   the   leafy 

Delaware; 
The  Sacramento,  too,  he  saw,  with  its  sands  of 

secret  gold, 
And  the  sea-like   Mississippi   on  its  long,   long 

courses  rolled; 
And  great  thoughts  glowed  within  him; — "God 

bless  the  land,"  cried  he; 
"  'Tis  a  good  land  to  fall  in  with,  men,  and  a 

pleasant  land  to  see  ! 

"  I  see  the  white  sails  on  the  main,  along  the  land  I 

view 
The  forests  opening  to  the  light  and  the  bright  ax 

flashing  through; 
I  see  the  cots  and  village  ways,  the  churches  with 

their  spires, 
Where  once  the  Indians  camped  and  danced  the 

war-dance,  round  their  fires; 
I  see  a  storm  come  up  the  deep, — 'tis  hurrying, 

raging,  o'er 
The  darkened  fields, — but  soon  it  parts,  with  a 

sullen,  seaward  roar. 
'Tis  gone;  the  heaven   smiles  out   again  —  God 

loves  the  land,"  cried  he; 
'"Tis  a  good  land  to  fall  in  with,  men,  and  a 

pleasant  land  to  see  ! 


HENDRIK'S  PROPHECY  281 

"I  see  the  white  sails  on  the  main,  I  see,  on  all  the 

strands, 
Old  Europe's  exiled  households  crowd,  and  toil's 

unnumbered  hands — 
From  Hessenland  and  Frankenland,  from  Danube, 

Drave,  and  Rhine, 
From  Netherland,  my  sea-born   land,   and   the 

Norseman's  hills  of  pine, 
From  Thames,  and  Shannon,  and  their  isles — and 

never,  sure,  before, 
Invading  host  such  greeting  found  upon  a  stranger 

shore. 
The  generous  Genius  of  the  West  his  welcome 

proffers  free: 
'  'Tis  a  good  land  to  fall  in  with,  men,  and  a 

pleasant  land  to  see  ! ' 

"They  learn  to  speak  one  language;  they  raise  one 

flag  adored 
Over  one  people  evermore,  and  guard  it  with  the 

sword. 
In  festive  hours,  they  look  upon  its  starry  folds 

above, 
And  hail  it  with  a  thousand  songs  of  glory  and  of 

love. 
Old  airs  of  many  a  fatherland  still  mingle  with  the 

cheer, 
To  make  the  love  more  loving  still,  the  glory  still 

more  dear — 


282  NEW   YORK 

Drink  up-sees  out!  join  hands  about!  bear  chorus 

all,"  chants  he; 
"'Tis  a  good  land  to  fall  in  with,  men,  and  a 

pleasant  land  to  see  !  " 

Anonymous. 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call    <^>    <^> 

i  Jan.,  1661 
(New  York  City) 

A 1  rHERE  nowadays  the  Battery  lies, 

*  *      New  York  had  just  begun, 
A  new-born  babe,  to  rub  its  eyes, 

In  Sixteen  Sixty-One. 
They  christened  it  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

Those  burghers  grave  and  stately, 
And  so,  with  schnapps  and  smoke  and  psalm, 

Lived  out  their  lives  sedately. 

Two  windmills  topped  their  wooden  wall, 

On  Stadthuys  gazing  down, 
On  fort,  and  cabbage-plots,  and  all 

The  quaintly  gabled  town; 
These  flapped  their  wings  and  shifted  backs, 

As  ancient  scrolls  determine, 
To  scare  the  savage  Hackensacks, 

Paumanks,  and  other  vermin. 

At  night  the  loyal  settlers  lay 
Betwixt  their  feather-beds; 


NEW  YORK   CITY  283 

In  hose  and  breeches  walked  by  day, 
And  smoked  and  wagged  their  heads. 

No  changeful  fashions  came  from  France, 
The  freulen  to  bewilder, 

And  cost  the  burgher's  purse,  perchance, 
Its  every  other  guilder. 

In  petticoats  of  linsey-red, 

And  jackets  neatly  kept, 
The  vrouws  their  knitting-needles  sped 

And  deftly  spun  and  swept. 
Few  modern-school  flirtations  there 

Set  wheels  of  scandal  trundling, 
But  youths  and  maidens  did  their  share 

Of  staid,  old-fashioned  bundling. 

The  New  Year  opened  clear  and  cold; 

The  snow,  a  Flemish  ell 
In  depth,  lay  over  Beekman's  Wold 

And  Wolfert's  frozen  well. 
Each  burgher  shook  his  kitchen-doors, 

Drew  on  his  Holland  leather, 
Then  stamped  through  drifts  to  do  the  chores, 

Beshrewing  all  such  weather. 

But — after  herring,  ham,  and  kraut — 

To  all  the  gathered  town 
The  Dominie  preached  the  morning  out, 

In  Calvinistic  gown; 


284  NEW  YORK 

While  tough  old  Peter  Stuyvesant 
Sat  pewed  in  foremost  station, — 

The  potent,  sage,  and  valiant 
Third  Governor  of  the  nation. 


Prayer  over,  at  his  mansion  hall, 

With  cake  and  courtly  smile, 
He  met  the  people,  one  and  all, 

In  gubernatorial  style; 
Yet  missed,  though  now  the  day  was  old, 

An  ancient  fellow-feaster — 
Heer  Covert  Loockermans,  that  bold 

Brewer  and  burgomeester; 

Who,  in  his  farmhouse,  close  without 

The  picket's  eastern  end, 
Sat  growling  at  the  twinge  of  gout 

That  kept  him  from  his  friend. 
But  Peter  strapped  his  wooden  peg, 

When  tea  and  cake  were  ended 
(Meanwhile  the  sound  remaining  leg 

Its  high  jack-boot  defended), 


A  woolsey  cloak  about  him  threw, 
And  swore  by  wind  and  limb, 

Since  Covert  kept  from  Peter's  view, 
Peter  would  visit  him; 


NEW  YORK   CITY  285 

Then  sallied  forth,  through  snow  and  blast, 

While  many  a  humbler  greeter 
Stood  wondering  whereaway  so  fast 

Strode  bluff  Hardkoppig  Pieter. 


Past  quay  and  cowpath,  through  a  lane 

Of  vats  and  mounded  tans, 
He  puffed  along,  with  might  and  main, 

To  Go  vert  Loockermans; 
Once  there,  his  right  of  entry  took, 

And  hailed  his  ancient  crony: 
"  Myn  God !  in  dese  Manhattoes,  Loock, 

Ve  gets  more  snow  as  money !  " 


To  which,  and  after  whiffs  profound, 

With  doubtful  wink  and  nod, 
There  came  at  last  responsive  sound: 

"Yah,  Peter;  yah,  Myn  God!  " 
Then  goodevrouw  Marie  sat  her  guest 

Beneath  the  chimney-gable, 
And  courtesied,  bustling  at  her  best 

To  spread  the  New  Year's  table. 


She  brought  the  pure  and  genial  schnapps, 
That  years  before  had  come — 

In  the  "Nieuw  Nederlandts,"  perhaps — 
To  cheer  the  settlers'  home; 


286  NEW  YORK 

The  long-stemmed  pipes;  the  fragrant  roll 
Of  pressed  and  crispy  Spanish; 

Then  placed  the  earthen  mugs  and  bowl, 
Nor  long  delayed  to  vanish. 

Thereat,  with  cheery  nod  and  wink, 

And  honors  of  the  day, 
The  trader  mixed  the  Governor's  drink 

As  evening  sped  away. 
That  ancient  room !    I  see  it  now: 

The  carven  nutwood  dresser; 
The  drawers,  that  many  a  burgher's  vrouw 

Begrudged  their  rich  possessor; 


The  brace  of  high-backed  leathern  chairs, 

Brass-nailed  at  every  seam; 
Six  others,  ranged  in  equal  pairs; 

The  bacon  hung  abeam; 
The  chimney-front,  with  porcelain  shelf t; 

The  hearty  wooden  fire; 
The  picture,  on  the  steaming  delft, 

Of  David  and  Goliah. 


I  see  the  two  old  Dutchmen  sit 

Like  Magog  and  his  mate, 
And  hear  them,  when  their  pipes  are  lit, 

Discuss  affairs  of  state: 


NEW  YORK   CITY  287 

The  clique  that  would  their  sway  demean; 

The  pestilent  importation 
Of  wooden  nutmegs,  from  the  lean 

And  losel  Yankee  nation. 


But  when  the  subtle  juniper 

Assumed  its  sure  command, 
They  drank  the  buxom  loves  that  were, — 

They  drank  the  Motherland; 
They  drank  the  famous  Swedish  wars, 

Stout  Peter's  special  glory, 
While  Govert  proudly  showed  the  scars 

Of  Indian  contests  gory. 


Erelong,  the  berry's  power  awoke 

Some  music  in  their  brains, 
And,  trumpet-like,  through  rolling  smoke, 

Rang  long-forgotten  strains, — 
Old  Flemish  snatches,  full  of  blood, 

Of  phantom  ships  and  battle; 
And  Peter,  with  his  leg  of  wood, 

Made  floor  and  casement  rattle. 


Then  round  and  round  the  dresser  pranced, 

The  chairs  began  to  wheel, 
And  on  the  board  the  punch-bowl  danced 

A  Netherlandish  reel; 


288  NEW   YORK 

Till  midnight  o'er  the  farmhouse  spread 
Her  New  Year's  skirt  of  sable, 

And  inch  by  inch,  each  puzzled  head 
Dropt  down  upon  the  table. 


But  still  to  Peter,  as  he  dreamed, 

The  table  spread  and  turned; 
The  chimney-log  blazed  high,  and  seemed 

To  circle  as  it  burned; 
The  town  into  the  vision  grew 

From  ending  to  beginning; 
Fort,  wall,  and  windmill  met  his  view, 

All  widening  and  spinning. 


The  cowpaths,  leading  to  the  docks, 

Grew  broader,  whirling  past, 
And  checkered  into  shining  blocks, 

A  city  fair  and  vast; 
Stores,  churches,  mansions,  overspread 

The  metamorphosed  island, 
While  not  a  beaver  showed  his  head 

From  Swamp  to  Kalchook  highland. 


Eftsoons  the  picture  passed  away; 

Hours  after,  Peter  woke 
To  see  a  spectral  streak  of  day 

Gleam  in  through  fading  smoke; 


NEW   YORK  HARBOR  289 

Still  slept  old  Covert,  snoring  on 

In  most  melodious  numbers; 
No  dreams  of  Eighteen  Sixty-One 

Commingled  with  his  slumbers. 


But  Peter,  from  the  farmhouse  door, 

Gazed  doubtfully  around, 
Rejoiced  to  find  himself  once  more 

On  sure  and  solid  ground. 
The  sky  was  somewhat  dark  ahead, 

Wind  east,  the  morning  lowery; 
And  on  he  pushed,  a  two-miles'  tread, 

To  breakfast  at  his  Bouwery. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  i 

August  20,  1898 
(New  York  Harbor) 


eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er 
•*-    mapless  miles  of  sea, 
On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  fur- 

thermost isles  are  free, 
And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor, 

and  height,  and  hill, 

Breaker  and  beach  cry  each  to  each,  "'Tis  the 
Mother  who  calls  !    Be  still  !  " 


290  NEW  YORK 

Mother  !  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold 

from  harm, 
Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her 

sovereign  arm, 
Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who 

bade  her  navies  roam, 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who 

calls  them  this  time  home  ! 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary 

watchers  rest, 
The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep 

in  the  golden  west 
Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson 

bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened 

stars  ! 

Peace  !    As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  can- 
nonade, 
Peace  at  last !  is  the  bugle  blast  the  length  of  the 

long  blockade, 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  "Peace  ! 

Thank  God  for  peace." 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall 

show 
The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade 

them  rise  and  go, — 


NEW  YORK  HARBOR  291 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her 

children's  ear, 
South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the 

whole  land  answered,  "Here  !  " 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of 

the  sailor's  song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should 

meet  with  wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and 

then,  on  the  decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace 

of  their  country's  God  ! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and 

free, 
To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost 

ends  of  sea, 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay  where  the  enemy 

lies  in  wait, 
To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her 

across  the  strait: — 
But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships 

round  heads  for  home, 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl 

of  seething  foam, 
And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet 

the  men  who  win  ! 
Thank  God  for  peace  !    Thank  God  for  peace, 

when  the  great  gray  ships  come  in! 

Guy  Wetmore  Carryl. 


292  NEW  YORK 

Mannahatta  •<^>     <^>     <c>     <^>     ^>     ^>     <o 

(New  York  City) 

T  WAS  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect 

•*•     for  my  city, 

Whereupon  lo  !  upsprang  the  aboriginal  name. 

Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word, 
liquid,  sane,  unruly,  musical,  self-sufficient, 

I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word  from 
of  old, 

Because  I  see  that  word  nested  in  nests  of  water- 
bays,  superb, 

Rich,  hemmed  thick  all  around  with  sail  ships 
and  steam  ships,  an  island  sixteen  miles 
long,  solid-founded, 

Numberless  crowded  streets,  high  growths  of 
iron,  slender,  strong,  light,  splendidly  up- 
rising toward  clear  skies, 

Tides  swift  and  ample,  well-loved  by  me,  towards 
sundown, 

The  flowing  sea-currents,  the  little  islands,  larger 
adjoining  islands,  the  heights,  the  villas, 

The  countless  masts,  the  white  shore-steamers, 
the  lighters,  the  ferry-boats,  the  black  sea- 
steamers  well-modeled, 

The  down-town  streets,  the  jobbers'  houses  of 
business,  the  houses  of  business  of  the  ship- 
merchants  and  money-brokers,  the  river- 
streets, 


NEW  YORK   CITY  293 

Immigrants  arriving,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
in  a  week, 

The  carts  hauling  goods,  the  manly  race  of  drivers 
of  horses,  the  brown-faced  sailors, 

The  summer  air,  the  bright  sun  shining,  and  the 
sailing  clouds  aloft, 

The  winter  snows,  the  sleigh-bells,  the  broken  ice 
in  the  river,  passing  along  up  or  down  with 
the  flood-tide  or  ebb-tide, 

The  mechanics  of  the  city,  the  masters,  well- 
formed,  beautiful-faced,  looking  you  straight 
in  the  eyes, 

Trottoirs  thronged,  vehicles,  Broadway,  the 
women,  the  shops  and  shows, 

A  million  people — manners  free  and  superb — 
open  voices — hospitality — the  most  coura- 
geous and  friendly  young  men, 

City  of  hurried  and  sparkling  waters  !  city  of 
spires  and  masts  ! 

City  nested  in  bays  !  my  cityj 

Walt  Whitman. 

From  A   Winter  Thought  of  Dartmouth  in 
Manhattan       <^>     <z>     <z>     <z>     ^ 

(New  York  City) 

A  H,  she  is  stronger  than  thou,  she  who  now 
*^     holds  us; 

She  that  sits  by  the  sea,  new-crowned  with  a  five- 
fold tiara; 


294  NEW  YORK 

She  of  the  great  twin  harbors,  our  lady  of  rivers 

and  islands; 

Tower-topped  Manhattan, 
With  feet  reeded  round  with  the  masts  of  the  five 

great  oceans 
Flowering  the  flags  of  all  nations,  flaunting  and 

furling, — • 

City  of  ironways,  city  of  ferries, 
Sea-Queen  and  Earth-Queen  ! 

Look,  how  the  line  of  her  roofs  corning  down  from 

the  north 

Breaks  into  surf-leap  of  granite — jagged  sierras — 
Upheaval  volcanic,  lined  sharp  on  the  violet  sky 
Where  the  red  moon,  lop-sided,  past  the  full, 
Over  their  ridge  swims  in  the  tide  of  space, 
And  the  harbor  waves  laugh*  softly,  silently. 

Look,  how  the  overhead  train  at  the  Morningside 

curve 

Loops  like  a  sea-born  dragon  its  sinuous  flight, 
Loops  in  the  night  in  and  out,  high  up  in  the  air, 
Like  a  serpent  of  stars  with  the  evil  and  undulant 

reach  of  waves. 


From  under  the  Bridge  at  noon 
See  from  the  yonder  shore  how  the  great  curves 
rise  and  converge, 


NEW  YORK  CITY  295 

Like  the  beams  of  the  universe,  like  the  masonry 

of  the  sky, 

Like  the  arches  set  for  the  corners  of  the  world, 
The  foundation-stone  of  the  orbic  spheres  and 

spaces. 

Is  she  not  fair  and  terrible,  O  Mother — 

City   of   Titan    thews,    deep-breasted,    colossal- 
limbed, 

Splendid   with    the    spoil    of    nations,    myriad- 
mooded  Manhattan  ? 

Behold,  we  are  hers — she  has  claimed  us;  and 
who  has  power  to  withstand  her  ? 

Richard  Hovey. 

Brooklyn  Bridge     <iy    <^>     <o    ^    <^>     ^> 

(New  York  City) 

1\JO  lifeless  thing  of  iron  and  stone, 
•*•  ^     But  sentient,  as  her  children  are, 
Nature  accepts  you  for  her  own, 
Kin  to  the  cataract  and  the  star. 

She  marks  your  vast,  sufficing  plan, 

Cable  and  girder,  bolt  and  rod, 
And  takes  you,  from  the  hand  of  man, 

For  some  new  handiwork  of  God. 

You  thrill  through  all  your  chords  of  steel 
Responsive  to  the  living  sun; 


296  NEW  YORK 

And  quickening  in  your  nerves  you  feel 
Life  with  its  conscious  currents  run. 

Your  anchorage  upbears  the  march 

Of  time  and  the  eternal  powers. 
The  sky  admits  your  perfect  arch, 

The  rock  respects  your  stable  towers. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 

Brooklyn  Bridge  at  Dawn1     <^>-    <^>    <^>    <^> 

(New  York  City) 

T  of  the  cleansing  night  of  stars  and  tides, 
Building  itself  anew  in  the  slow  dawn, 
The  long  sea-city  rises:  night  is  gone, 
Day  is  not  yet;  still  merciful,  she  hides 
Her  summoning  brow,   and    still   the   night-car 

glides 

Empty  of  faces;  the  night-watchmen  yawn 
One  to  the  other,  and  shiver  and  pass  on, 
Nor  yet  a  soul  over  the  great  bridge  rides. 

Frail  as  a  gossamer,  a  thing  of  air, 
A  bow  of  shadow  o'er  the  river  flung, 

Its  sleepy  masts  and  lonely  lapping  flood; 
Who  seeing  thus  the  bridge  a-slumber  there, 
Would  dream  such  softness  like  a  picture  hung, 
Is   wrought   of   human    thunder,    iron    and 

blood? 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

1  With  permission  of  John  Lane  Company. 


NEW  YORK  CITY  297 

Pan  in  Wall  Street       <^x     <^>     <^x     <^x     ^> 

(New  York  City) 

JUST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 
J     Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations; 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple, — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer; 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar: 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 


298  NEW  YORK 

'Twas  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times, — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head; 

But — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goafs-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley; 


NEW  YORK  CITY  299 

The  random  passers  stayed  to  list, — 

A  boxer  ^Egon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowsy,  apple- vending  slattern; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper: 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

0  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her, — 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  ! 


300  NEW  YORK 

So  thought  I, — but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead  !  "  —  and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways: — and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


Washington  Square       <^>     ^>     <^>     *o>     *o> 

(New  York  City) 

'  I  "HIS  is  the  end  of  the  town  that  I  love  the  best. 
-*•      Oh,  lovely  the  hour  of  light  from  the  burn- 
ing west — 
Of  light  that  lingers  and  fades  in  the  shadowy 

square 

Where  the  solemn  fountain  lifts  a  shaft  in  the  air 
To  catch  the  skyey  colors,  and  fling  them  down 
In  a  wild-wood  torrent  that  drowns  the  noise  of 

the  town. 

And  lovely  the  hour  of  the  still  and  dreamy  night 
When,  lifted  against  the  blue,  stands  the  arch  of 

white 

With  one  clear  planet  above;  and  the  sickle  moon, 
In  curve  reversed  from  the  arch's  marble  round, 
Silvers  the  sapphire  sky.    Now  soon,  ah  soon, 
Shall  the  city  square  be  turned  to  holy  ground 


NEW  YORK   CITY  301 

Through  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the  stars  and 

the  glowing  flower, — 
The  Cross  of  Light, — that  looms  from  the  sacred 

tower. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

Broadway       <^x     *^     ^>     <o     <^>     <^x     <^> 

(New  York  City) 

this  day  of  brightest  dawning, 
Underneath  each  spreading  awning, 
Sheltered  from  the  sun's  fierce  ray, 
Come,  and  let  us  saunter  gayly 
With  the  crowd  whose  footsteps,  daily, 
Wear  the  sidewalks  of  Broadway. 

Leave  the  proof-sheets  and  the  printer 
Till  the  duller  days  of  winter, 

Till  some  dark  December  day; 
Better  than  your  lucubrations 
Are  the  vivid  inspirations 

You  can  gather  in  Broadway  ! 

Tell  me  not,  in  half-derision, 
Of  your  Boulevards  Parisian, 

With  their  brilliant  broad  paves, 
Still  for  us  the  best  is  nearest, 
And  the  last  love  is  the  dearest, 

And  the  Queen  of  Streets — Broadway  ! 


302  NEW  YORK 

Here,  beneath  bewitching  bonnets, 
Sparkle  eyes  to  kindle  sonnets, 

Charms,  each  worth  a  lyric  lay; 
Ah  !  what  bright,  untold  romances 
Linger  in  the  radiant  glances 

Of  the  beauties  of  Broadway  ! 

All  the  fairer,  that  so  fleeting    . 
Is  the  momentary  meeting, 

That  our  footsteps  may  not  stay; 
While,  each  passing  form  replacing, 
Swift  the  waves  of  life  are  chasing 

Down  the  channels  of  Broadway  ! 

Motley  as  the  masqueraders 
Are  the  jostling  promenaders, 

In  their  varied,  strange  display; 
Here  an  instant,  only,  blending, 
Whither  are  their  footsteps  tending 

As  they  hasten  through  Broadway  ? 

Some  to  garrets  and  to  cellars, 
Crowded  with  unhappy  dwellers; 

Some  to  mansions,  rich  and  gay, 
Where  the  evening's  mirth  and  pleasure 
Shall  be  fuller,  in  their  measure, 

Than  the  turmoil  of  Broadway  ! 

Yet  were  once  our  mortal  vision 
Blest  with  quicker  intuition, 


NEW  YORK  CITY  303 

We  should  shudder  with  dismay 
To  behold  what  shapes  are  haunting 
Some,  who  seem  most  gayly  flaunting 

On  the  sidewalks  of  Broadway  ! 

For,  beside  the  beggar  cheerless, 
And  the  maiden  gay  and  fearless, 

And  the  old  man  worn  and  gray, 
Swift  and  viewless,  waiting  never, 
Still  the  Fates  are  gliding  ever, 

Stern  and  silent,  through  Broadway  ! 

William  Allen  Butler. 


Broadway 

(New  York  City) 


"OETWEEN  these  frowning  granite  steeps 

*~*    The  human  river  onward  sweeps; 

And  here  it  moves  with  torrent  force, 

And  there  it  slacks  its  heady  course: 

But  what  controls  its  variant  flow 

A  keener  wit  than  mine  must  show, 

Who  cast  myself  upon  the  tide, 

And  with  its  current,  merging,  glide,  — 

A  drop,  an  atom,  of  the  whole 

Of  its  great  bulk  and  wandering  soul. 

O  curbless  river,  savage  stream, 
Thou  art  my  wilderness  extreme, 


304  NEW  YORK 

Where  I  may  move  as  free,  as  lone, 
As  in  the  waste  with  wood  o'ergrown, 
And  broodings  of  as  brave  a  strain 
May  here  unchallenged  entertain, 
Whether  meridian  light  display 
The  swift  routine  of  current  day, 
Or  yet,  electric,  diamond-clear, 
Convoke  a  world  of  glamour  here. 
Yet  when  of  solitude  I  tire, 
Speak  comradeship  to  my  desire, 

0  most  companionable  tide, 
Where  all  to  all  are  firm  allied, 

And  each  hath  countenance  from  the  rest, 
Although  the  tie  be  unconf essed ! 

ii 

1  muse  upon  this  river's  brink; 
I  listen  long;  I  strive  to  think 
What  cry  goes  forth,  of  many  blent, 
And  by  that  cry  what  thing  is  meant, — 
What  simple  legend  of  old  fate 

Man's  voice,  here  inarticulate, 
From  out  this  dim  and  strange  uproar 
Still  heaves  upon  the  skyey  shore ! 

Amid  this  swift,  phantasmal  stream 
Sometimes  I  move  as  in  a  dream; 
Then  wondrous  quiet,  for  a  space, 
The  clanging  tumult  will  displace; 


NEW  YORK  CITY  305 

And  toil's  hard  gride  and  pleasure's  hum 
No  longer  to  my  ear  may  come: 
A  pantomimic  haunted  throng 
Fareth  in  silence  deep  and  strong, 
And  seems  in  summoned  haste  to  urge, 
Half  prescient,  towards  a  destined  verge! 

The  river  flows, — unwasting  flows; 
Nor  less  nor  more  its  volume  grows, 
From  source  to  sea  still  onward  rolled, 
As  days  are  shed  and  years  are  told; 
And  yet  so  mutable  its  wave, 
That  no  man  twice  therein  may  lave, 
But  ere  he  can  return  again, 
Himself  shall  subtle  change  sustain; 
Since  more  and  more  each  life  must  be 
Tide-troubled  by  the  drawing  sea. 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


On  a  Subway  Express  <^>    <^>    <^    <^> 

(New  York  City) 

T  WHO  have  lost  the  stars,  the  sod, 
-*•     For  chilling  pave  and  cheerless  light, 
Have  made  my  meeting-place  with  God 
A  new  and  nether  Night — 

Have  found  a  fane  where  thunder  fills 
Loud  caverns,  tremulous; — and  these 


306  NEW   YORK 

Atone  me  for  my  reverend  hills 
And  moonlit  silences. 


A  figment  in  the  crowded  dark, 
Where  men  sit  muted  by  the  roar, 

I  ride  upon  the  whirring  Spark 
Beneath  the  city's  floor. 

In  this  dim  firmament,  the  stars 
Whirl  by  in  blazing  files  and  tiers; 

Kin  meteors  graze  our  flying  bars, 
Amid  the  spinning  spheres. 

Speed !  speed !  until  the  quivering  rails 

Flash  silver  where  the  head-light  gleams, 
As  when  on  lakes  the  Moon  impales 

The  waves  upon  its  beams. 

* 
Life  throbs  about  me,  yet  I  stand 

Outgazing  on  majestic  Power; 
Death  rides  with  me,  on  either  hand, 

In  my  communion  hour. 

You  that  'neath  country  skies  can  pray, 
Scoff  not  at  me — the  city  clod; — 

My  only  respite  of  the  Day 
Is  this  wild  ride — with  God. 

Chester  Firkins. 


FORDHAM  307 

On  the  Elevated  Railroad  at  uoth  Street  <^y 

(New  York  City) 

\  BOVE  the  hollow  deep  where  lies 
•*•*•    The  city's  slumbering  face, 
Out,  out  across  the  night  we  swing, 
A  meteor  launched  in  space. 

The  dark  above  is  sown  with  stars, 

The  humming  dark  below 
With  sparkle  of  ten  thousand  lamps 

In  endless  row  on  row. 

Tall  shadow  towers  with  glimmering  lights 

Stand  sinister  and  grim 
Where  upper  deep  and  lower  deep 

Come  darkly  rim  to  rim. 

Our  souls  have  known  the  midnight  awe 
Of  mount, -and  plain,  and  sea; 

But  here  the  city's  night  enfolds 
A  vaster  mystery. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham    «^>     <^>     *^>    ^> 

(Fordham) 

TTERE  lived  the  soul  enchanted 
-*-  -*•    By  melody  of  song; 
Here  dwelt  the  spirit  haunted 
By  a  demoniac  throng; 


308  NEW   YORK 

Here  sang  the  lips  elated; 
Here  grief  and  death  were  sated; 
Here  loved  and  here  unmated 
Was  he,  so  frail,  so  strong. 


Here  wintry  winds  and  cheerless 

The  dying  firelight  blew, 
While  he  whose  song  was  peerless 

Dreamed  the  drear  midnight  through, 
And  from  dull  embers  chilling 
Crept  shadows  darkly  filling 
The  silent  place,  and  thrilling 

His  fancy  as  they  grew. 

Here,  with  brow  bared  to  heaven, 

In  starry  night  he  stood, 
With  the  lost  star  of  seven 

Feeling  sad  brotherhood. 
Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 
Of  dark  autumnal  hours 
He  heard  suspected  powers 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood. 


From  visions  of  Apollo 
And  of  Astarte's  bliss, 

He  gazed  into  the  hollow 
And  hopeless  vale  of  Dis, 


FORDHAM  309 

And  though  earth  were  surrounded 
By  heaven,  it  still  was  mounded 
With  graves.    His  soul  had  sounded 
The  dolorous  abyss. 


Proud,  mad,  but  not  defiant, 
He  touched  at  heaven  and  hell. 

Fate  found  a  rare  soul  pliant 
And  rung  her  changes  well. 

Alternately  his  lyre, 

Stranded  with  strings  of  fire, 

Led  earth's  most  happy  choir, 
Or  flashed  with  Israfel. 


No  singer  of  old  story 

Luting  accustomed  lays, 
No  harper  for  new  glory, 

No  mendicant  for  praise, 
He  struck  high  chords  and  splendid, 
Wherein  were  fiercely  blended 
Tones  that  unfinished  ended 

With  his  unfinished  days. 

Here  through  this  lowly  portal, 
Made  sacred  by  his  name, 

Unheralded  immortal 
The  mortal  went  and  came. 


310  NEW  YORK 

And  fate  that  then  denied  him, 
And  envy  that  decried  him, 
And  malice  that  belied  him, 
Have  cenotaphed  his  fame. 

John  Henry  Boner. 

At  Bay  Ridge,  Long  Island<^>     ^>     <^x     *^> 

PLEASANT  it  is  to  lie  amid  the  grass 

-*-       Under  these  shady  locusts,  half  the  day, 

Watching  the  ships  reflected  on  the  Bay, 

Topmast  and  shroud,  as  in  a  wizard's  glass: 

To  see  the  happy-hearted  martins  pass, 

Brushing  the  dew-drops  from  the  lilac  spray: 

Or  else  to  hang  enamored  o'er  some  lay 

Of  fairy  regions :  or  to  muse,  alas ! 

On  Dante,  exiled,  journeying  outworn; 

On  patient  Milton's  sorrowfulest  eyes 

Shut  from  the  splendors  of  the  Night  and  Morn: 

To  think  that  now,  beneath  the  Italian  skies 

In  such  clear  air  as  this,  by  Tiber's  wave, 

Daisies  are  trembling  over  Keats 's  grave. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

Hudson  Rivera    <^>    <^    ^    <^>    <^x    ^> 

"D IVERS  that  roll  most  musical  in  song 
-*-^    Are  often  lovely  to  the  mind  alone; 
The  wanderer  muses,  as  he  moves  along 
Their  barren  banks,  on  glories  not  their  own. 


HUDSON  RIVER  311 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyish  dreams, 
He  leaves  his  own,  far  countries  to  survey, 

Oft  must  he  think,  in  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

If  chance  he  mark  the  dwindled  Arno  pour 
A  tide  more  meagre  than  his  native  Charles; 

Or  views  the  Rhone  when  summer's  heat  is  o'er, 
Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries; 

Or  when  he  sees  the  slimy  Tiber  fling 
His  sullen  tribute  at  the  feet  of  Rome, 

Oft  to  his  thought  must  partial  memory  bring 
More  noble  waves,  without  renown,  at  home; 

Now  let  him  climb  the  Catskill,  to  behold 
The  lordly  Hudson,  marching  to  the  main, 

And  say  what  bard,  in  any  land  of  old, 
Had  such  a  river  to  inspire  his  strain. 

Along  the  Rhine  gray  battlements  and  towers- 
Declare  what  robbers  once  the  realm  possessed; 

But  here  Heaven's  handiwork  surpasseth  ours, 
And  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 

No  storied  castle  overawes  these  heights, 
Nor  antique  arches  check  the  current's  play, 

Nor  mouldering  architrave  the  mind  invites 
To  dream  of  deities  long  passed  away. 


312  NEW  YORK 

No  Gothic  buttress,  or  decaying  shaft 
Of  marble,  yellowed  by  a  thousand  years, 

Lifts  a  great  landmark  to  the  little  craft, — 
A  summer  cloud !  that  comes  and  disappears. 

But  cliffs,  unaltered  from  their  primal  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge,  rise 

And  hold  their  savins  to  the  upper  storm, 
While  far  below  the  skiff  securely  plies. 

Farms,  rich  not  more  in  meadows  than  in  men 
Of  Saxon  mould,  and  strong  for  every  toil, 

Spread  o'er  the  plain,  or  scatter  through  the  glen, 
Boeotian  plenty  on  a  Spartan  soil. 

Then,  where  the  reign  of  cultivation  ends, 
Again  the  charming  wilderness  begins; 

From  steep  to  steep  one  solemn  wood  extends, 
Till  some  new  hamlet's  rise  the  boscage  thins. 

And  these  deep  groves  forever  have  remained 
Touched  by  no  ax, — by  no  proud  owner  nursed 

As'  now  they  stand  they  stood  when  Pharaoh 

reigned, 
Lineal  descendants  of  creation's  first. 


No  tales,  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 
In  ancient  scrolls;  no  deeds  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree, 
And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  fame. 


HUDSON   RIVER  313 

But  neither  here  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invaders  from  barbarian  climes; 

No  horrors  feigned  of  giant  or  of  god 
Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields  laid  waste, 
The  ravished  harvest  and  the  blasted  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruined,  and  the  shrine  defaced, 
Tracked  the  foul  passage  of  the  feudal  brute. 

"Yet,  O  Antiquity!  "  the  stranger  sighs, 

"Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pall  upon  the  view; 

The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 
Where  all  is  fair  indeed, — but  all  is  new." 

False  thought !  is  age  to  crumbling  walls  confined  ? 

To  Grecian  fragments  and  Egyptian  bones  ? 
Hath  Time  no  monuments  to  raise  the  mind, 

More    than    old    fortresses    and    sculptured 
stones  ? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 
That  wears  unchanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  dawning  from  its  Maker's  hand 
Gladdened  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 

Nor  did  Euphrates  with  an  earlier  birth 

Glide  past  green  Eden  towards  the  unknown 
south, 


314  NEW   YORK 

Than  Hudson  broke  upon  the  infant  earth,- 
And  kissed  the  ocean  with  his  nameless  mouth. 

Twin-born  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile ! 

Thebes  and  the  pyramids  to  thee  are  young; 
O,  had  thy  waters  burst  from  Britain's  isle, 

Till  now  perchance  they  had  not  flowed  unsung. 
Thomas  William  Parsons. 

The  Hudson  -o>     ^>    <^>    *^x    ^>    <^>    o 

'  '"TWAS  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came  with  its 

-"•      dawn, 
Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's  day-star  was 

drawn ; 
The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shadows  grew 

long, 
And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed  it  in  song. 

"There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills  of  the 

west,"— 

She  sang  to  her  boy  as  he  lay  on  her  breast; 
"Along  its  smooth  margin  thy  fathers  have  played 
Beside  its  deep  waters  their  ashes  are  laid." 

I  wandered  afar  from  the  land  of  my  birth, 
I  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon  earth, 
But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flowing  stream 
With  the  many-hued  pencil  of  infancy's  dream. 


THE   HUDSON  315 

I    saw   the  green   banks  of   the   castle-crowned 

Rhine, 
Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight  and  change 

it  to  wine; 

I  stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as  they  glide 
Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at  their  side. 

But  my  heart  would  still  yearn  for  the  sound  of 

the  waves 

That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  forefathers'  graves; 
If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a  tear, 
I  care  not  who  sees  it, — no  blush  for  it  here ! 

Farewell  to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of  the  West ! 
1  fling  this  loose  blossom  to  float  on  its  breast; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children  grow  cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters  have 
rolled ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


From  The  Cidprit 

(The  Hudson) 

"T*IS  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night: 
•*•      The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are 

bright; 

Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 
But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless 
sky, 


316  NEW  YORK 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 

A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest: 

She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 

And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 

In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below; 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade 

By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 

And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 

Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly's  spark, — 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 


The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow 
A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel- like  spiral  line  below; 
The  winds  are  whist  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid, 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze- winged  katydid; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whippoorwill, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  317 

The  Hudson         <^>     <o     <^>     <^     *^>     <^> 

A  ~\  THERE  in  its  old  historic  splendor  stands 
^  *      The  home  of  England's  far-famed  Parlia- 
ment, 

And  waters  of  the  Thames  in  calm  content 
At  England's  fame  flow  slowly  o'er  their  sands; 
And  where  the  Rhine  past  vine-entwined  lands 
Courses  in  castled  beauty,  there  I  went; 
And  far  to  Southern  rivers,  flower-besprent; 
And  to  the  icy  streams  of  Northern  strands. 
Then  mine  own  native  shores  I  trod  once  more, 
And,  gazing  on  thy  waters'  majesty, 
The  memory,  O  Hudson,  came  to  me 
Of  one  who  went  to  seek  the  wide  world  o'er 
For  Love,  but  found  it  not.    Then  home  turned  he 
And  saw  his  mother  waiting  at  the  door. 

George  Sidney  Hellman. 

Catskill  Mountains       <^x     <^x     <^x     <^>     <^y 

From  Rip  Van  Winkle 

T 1 7HOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson 
*  ^  must  remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains. 
They  are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the  great 
Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west 
of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lord- 
ing it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change 
of  season,  every  change  of  weather,  indeed,  every 
hour  of  the  day,  produces  some  change  in  the  mag- 


318  NEW  YORK 

ical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and  they 
are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as 
perfect  barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and 
settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and 
print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening  sky; 
but  sometimes  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is 
cloudless  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors 
about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of 
glory. 

Washington  Irving. 


TTOW  reel  the  wildered  senses  at  the  sight! 
•^  *-     How  vast  the  boundless  vision  breaks  in 

view! 

Nor  thought,  nor  word,  can  well  depict  the  scene; 
The  din  of  toil  comes  faintly  swelling  up 
From  green  fields  far  below  ;  and  all  around 
The  forest  sea  sends  up  its  ceaseless  roar 
Like  to  the  ocean's  everlasting  chime. 
Mountains  on  mountains  in  the  distance  rise, 
Like  clouds  along  the  far  horizon's  verge; 
Their  misty  summits  mingling  with  the  sky, 
Till  earth  and  heaven  seem  blended  into  one. 
So  far  removed  from  toil  and  bustling  care,  — 
So  far  from  earth,  if  heaven  no  nearer  be, 
And  gazing,  as  a  spirit,  from  mid-air 
Upon  the  strife  and  tumult  of  the  world, 


CATTERSKILL   FALLS  319 

Let  me  forget  the  cares  I  leave  behind, 
And  with  an  humble  spirit,  bow  before 
The  Maker  of  these  everlastin'g  hills. 

Bayard  Taylor. 

Catterskill  Falls l      <z>     ^      -o>      ^>      *^> 

TV /TIDST  greens  and  shades  the  Catterskill  leaps, 
1V1     jrrom  cliffs  where  the  wood-flower  clings; 
All  summer  he  moistens  his  verdant  steeps 
With  the  sweet  light  spray  of  the  mountain 

springs; 

And  he  shakes  the  woods  on  the  mountain  side, 
When  they  drip  with  the  rains  of  autumn-tide. 

But  when,  in  the  forest  bare  and  old, 

The  blast  of  December  calls, 
He  builds,  in  the  starlight  clear  and  cold, 

A  palace  of  ice  where  his  torrent  falls, 
With  turret,  and  arch,  and  fretwork  fair, 
And  pillars  blue  as  the  summer  air. 

For  whom  are  those  glorious  chambers  wrought, 

In  the  cold  and  cloudless  night? 
Is  there  neither  spirit  nor  motion  of  thought 

In  forms  so  lovely  and  hues  so  bright  ? 
Hear  what  the  gray-haired  woodmen  tell 
Of  this  wild  stream  and  its  rocky  dell. 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission  of 
D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


320  NEW   YORK 

'Twas  hither  a  youth  of  dreamy  mood, 

A  hundred  winters  ago, 
Had  wandered  over  the  mighty  wood, 

When  the  panther's  track  was  fresh  on  the  snow, 
And  keen  were  the  winds  that  came  to  stir 
The  long  dark  boughs  of  the  hemlock-fir. 


Too  gentle  of  mien  he  seemed  and  fair 
For  a  child  of  those  rugged  steeps; 

His  home  lay  low  in  the  valley  where 
The  kingly  Hudson  rolls  to  the  deeps; 

But  he  wore  the  hunter's  frock  that  day, 

And  a  slender  gun  on  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  here  he  paused,  and  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  tall  gray  linden  leant, 
When  the  broad  clear  orb  of  the  sun  had  sunk 

From  his  path  in  the  frosty  firmament, 
And  over  the  round  dark  edge  of  the  hill 
A  cold  green  light  was  quivering  still. 


And  the  crescent  moon,  high  over  the  green, 

From  a  sky  of  crimson  shone 
On  that  icy  palace,  whose  towers  were  seen 

To  sparkle  as  if  with  stars  of  their  own; 
While  the  water  fell  with  a  hollow  sound, 
'Twixt  the  glistening  pillars  ranged  around. 


CATTERSKILL   FALLS  321 

Is  that  a  being  of  life,  that  moves 
Where  the  crystal  battlements  rise? 

A  maiden  watching  the  moon  she  loves, 
At  the  twilight  hour,  with  pensive  eyes? 

Was  that  a  garment  which  seemed  to  gleam 

Betwixt  his  eye  and  the  falling  stream  ? 


'Tis  only  the  torrent  tumbling  o'er, 

In  the  midst  of  those  glassy  walls, 
Gushing,  and  plunging,  and  beating  the  floor 

Of  the  rocky  basin  in  which  it  falls. 
'Tis  only  the  torrent — but  why  that  start? 
Why  gazes  the  youth  with  a  throbbing  heart? 

He  thinks  no  more  of  his  home  afar, 

Where  his  sire  and  sister  wait. 
He  heeds  no  longer  how  star  after  star 

Looks  forth  on  the  night  as  the  hour  grows  late. 
He  heeds  not  the  snow-wreaths,  lifted  and  cast 
From  a  thousand  boughs  by  the  rising  blast. 


His  thoughts  are  alone  of  those  who  dwell 

In  the  halls  of  frost  and  snow, 
Who  pass  where  the  crystal  domes  upswell 

From  the  alabaster  floors  below, 
Where  the  frost-trees  shoot  with  leaf  and  spray, 
And  frost-gems  scatter  a  silvery  day. 


322  NEW  YORK 

"And  oh,  that  those  glorious  haunts  were  mine  !" 
He  speaks,  and  throughout  the  glen 

Thin  shadows  swim  in  the  faint  moonshine, 
And  take  a  ghastly  likeness  of  men, 

As  if  the  slain  by  the  wintry  storms 

Came  forth  to  the  air  in  their  earthly  forms. 

There  pass  the  chasers  of  seal  and  whale, 
With  their  weapons  quaint  and  grim, 

And  bands  of  warriors  in  glittering  mail, 
And  herdsmen  and  hunters  huge  of  limb; 

There  are  naked  arms,  with  bow  and  spear, 

And  furry  gauntlets  the  carbine  rear. 

There  are  mothers — and  oh,  how  sadly  their  eyes 
On  their  children's  white  brows  rest ! 

There  are  youthful  lovers, — the  maiden  lies, 
In  a  seeming  sleep,  on  the  chosen  breast; 

There  are  fair  wan  women  with  moonstruck  air, 

The  snow-stars  flecking  their  long  loose  hair. 

They  eye  him  not  as  they  pass  along, 
But  his  hair  stands  up  with  dread, 

When  he  feels  that  he  moves  with  that  phantom 

throng, 
Till  those  icy  turrets  are  over  his  head, 

And  the  torrent's  roar  as  they  enter  seems 

Like  a  drowsy  murmur  heard  in  dreams. 


CATTERSKILL   FALLS  323 

The  glittering  threshold  is  scarcely  passed, 
When  there  gathers  and  wraps  him  round 

A  thick  white  twilight,  sullen  and  vast, 
In  which  there  is  neither  form  nor  sound; 

The  phantoms,  the  glory,  vanish  all, 

With  the  dying  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Slow  passes  the  darkness  of  that  trance, 

And  the  youth  now  faintly  sees 
Huge  shadows  and  gushes  of  light  that  dance 

On  a  rugged  ceiling  of  unhewn  trees, 
And  walls  where  the  skins  of  beasts  are  hung, 
And  rifles  glitter  on  antlers  strung. 

On  a  couch  of  shaggy  skins  he  lies; 

As  he  strives  to  raise  his  head, 
Hard-featured  woodmen,  with  kindly  eyes, 

Come  round  him  and  smooth  his  furry  bed, 
And  bid  him  rest,  for  the  evening  star 
Is  scarcely  set  and  the  day  is  far. 

They  had  found  at  eve  the  dreaming  one 

By  the  base  of  that  icy  steep, 
When  over  his  stiffening  limbs  begun 

The  deadly  slumber  of  frost  to  creep, 
And  they  cherished  the  pale  and  breathless  form, 
Till  the  stagnant  blood  ran  free  and  warm. 

William  Cidlen  Brvant. 


324  NEW  YORK 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown-v>     <^    «^ 

( Tarrytown) 

TTERE  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 
*•  •*     In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his  fame ! 
A  simple  stone,  with  but  a  date  and  name, 
Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 
The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 
Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 
With  tints  that  brightened  and  were  multiplied. 
How  sweet  a  life  was  his ;  how  sweet  a  death  ! 
Living,  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary  hours, 
Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to  cheer; 
Dying,  to  leave  a  memory  like  the  breath 
Of  summers  full  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Long  fell  on. 

Lake  Saratoga     *o     <^>     <^>     <^     <^>     <^> 

A  LADY  stands  beside  the  silver  lake. 
"What,"  said  the  Mohawk,  "wouldst  thou 

have  me  do  ?  " 

"Across  the  water,  sir,  be  pleased  to  take 
Me  and  my  children  in  thy  bark  canoe." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  Chief, "  thou  knowest  not,  I  think, 
The  legend  of  the  lake, — hast  ever  heard 


LAKE  SARATOGA  325 

That  in  its  wave  the  stoutest  boat  will  sink, 
If  any  passenger  shall  speak  a  word  ?" 

"Full  well  we  know  the  Indian's  strange  belief," 
The  lady  answered,  with  a  civil  smile; 

"But  take  us  o'er  the  water,  mighty  Chief; 
In  rigid  silence  we  will  sit  the  while." 

Thus  they  embarked,  but  ere  the  little  boat 
Was  half  across  the  lake,  the  woman  gave 

Her  tongue  its  wonted  play, — but  still  they  float, 
And  pass  in  safety  o'er  the  utmost  wave ! 

Safe  on  the  shore,  the  warrior  looked  amazed, 
Despite  the  stoic  calmness  of  his  race; 

No  word  he  spoke,  but  long  the  Indian  gazed 
In  moody  silence  in  the  woman's  face. 

"What  think  you  now  ?"  the  lady  gayly  said; 

"  Safely  to  land  your  frail  canoe  is  brought ! 
No  harm,  you  see,  has  touched  a  single  head ! 

So  superstition  ever  comes  to  naught!" 

Smiling,  the  Mohawk  said,  "Our  safety  shows 
That  God  is  merciful  to  old  and  young; 

Thanks  unto  the  Great  Spirit ! — well  he  knows 
The  pale-faced  woman  cannot  hold  her  tongue! " 
John  Godfrey  Saxe, 


326  NEW  YORK 

Lake  George        <^>     ^o>     <^x     <^     <^>     <^> 

A    SUMMER  shower  had  swept  the  woods; 
•*;*      But  when,  from  all  the  scene, 
Rolled  off  at  length  the  thunder-floods, 

And  streamed  the  sunset  sheen, 
I  came  where  my  postilion  raised 

His  horsewhip  for  a  wand, 
And  said,  "There's  Horicon,  good  sir, 

And  here's  the  Bloody  Pond ! 


"And  don't  you  see  yon  low  gray  wall, 

With  grass  and  bushes  grown  ? 
Well,  that's  Fort  George's  palisade, 

That  many  a  storm  has  known: 
But  here's  the  Bloody  Pond  where  lies 

Full  many  a  soldier  tall; 
The  spring,  they  say,  was  never  pure 

Since  that  red  burial." 


'Twas  rare  to  see !    That  vale  beneath ; 

That  lake  so  calm  and  cool ! 
But  mournful  was  each  lily-wreath, 

Upon  the  turbid  pool : 
And — "On,  postilion,  let  us  haste 

To  greener  banks,"  I  cried, 
"O,  stay  me  not  where  man  has  stained 

With  brother's  blood  the  tide !  " 


LAKE  GEORGE  327 

An  hour, — and  though  the  Even-star 

Was  chasing  down  the  sun, 
My  boat  was  on  thine  azure  wave, 

Sweet,  holy  Horicon ! 
And  woman's  voice  cheered  on  our  bark, 

With  soft  bewildering  song, 
While  fireflies,  darting  through  the  dark, 

Went  lighting  us  along. 

Anon,  that  bark  was  on  the  beach, 

And  soon  I  stood  alone 
Upon  thy  moldering  walls,  Fort  George, 

So  old  and  ivy-grown. 
At  once,  old  tales  of  massacre 

Were  crowding  on  my  soul, 
And  ghosts  of  ancient  sentinels 

Paced  up  the  rocky  knoll. 

The  shadowy  hour  was  dark  enow 

For  fancy's  wild  campaign, 
And  moments  were  impassioned  hours 

Of  battle  and  of  pain: 
Each  brake  and  thistle  seemed  alive 

With  fearful  shapes  of  fight, 
And  up  the  feathered  scalp-locks  rose 

Of  many  a  tawny  sprite. 

The  Mohawk  war-whoop  howled  again; 

I  heard  St.  Denys'  charge, 
And  then  the  volleyed  musketry 

Of  England  and  St.  George. 


328  NEW  YORK 

The  vale,  the  rocks,  the  cradling  hills, 
From  echoing  rank  to  rank, 

Rung  back  the  warlike  rhetoric 
Of  Huron  and  of  Frank. 

"So,  keep  thy  name,  Lake  George,"  said  I, 

"And  bear  to  latest  day, 
The  memory  of  our  primal  age, 

And  England's  early  sway; 
And  when  Columbia's  flag  shall  here 

Her  starry  glories  toss, 
Be  witness  how  our  fathers  fought 

Beneath  St.  George's  cross." 
***** 

Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 
Falls  of  the  Mohawk     <^y    <o    <^>    -^>    <^> 

(Mohawk  River) 

"IC'ROM  rise  of  morn  till  set  of  sun 
*-       I've  seen  the  mighty  Mohawk  run; 
And  as  I  marked  the  woods  of  pine 
Along  his  mirror  darkly  shine, 
Like  tall  and  gloomy  forms  that  pass 
Before  the  wizard's  midnight  glass; 
And  as  I  viewed  the  hurrying  pace 
With  which  he  ran  his  turbid  race, 
Rushing,  alike  untired  and  wild, 
Through  shades  that  frowned  and  flowers  that 
smiled, 


MOHAWK  RIVER  329 

Flying  by  every  green  recess 
That  wooed  him  to  its  calm  caress, 
Yet,  sometimes  turning  with  the  wind, 
As  if  to  leave  one  look  behind, 
Oft  have  I  thought,  and  thinking  sighed, 
How  like  to  thee,  thou  restless  tide, 
May  be  the  lot,  the  life  of  him 
Who  roams  along  thy  water's  brim; 
Through  what  alternate  wastes  of  woe 
And  flowers  of  joy  my  path  may  go; 
How  many  a  sheltered,  calm  retreat 
May  woo  the  while  my  weary  feet, 
While  still  pursuing,  still  unblest, 
I  wander  on,  nor  dare  to  rest; 
But,  urgent  as  the  doom  that  calls 
Thy  water  to  its  destined  falls, 
I  feel  the  world's  bewildering  force 
Hurry  rny  heart's  devoted  course 
From  lapse  to  lapse,  till  life  be  done, 
And  the  spent  current  cease  to  run. 

One  only  prayer  I  dare  to  make, 
As  onward  thus  my  course  I  take, — 
Oh,  be  my  falls  as  bright  as  thine  ! 
May  heaven's  relenting  rainbow  shine 
Upon  the  mist  that  circles  me, 
As  soft  as  now  it  hangs  o'er  thee ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


33°  NEW  YORK 

From  The  Adirondacs  <z*     <z>     ^>     <^>     ^> 

A  JOURNAL. 
DEDICATED  TO  MY  FELLOW-TRAVELERS  IN  1858. 

Wise  and  polite. — and  if  I  drew 
Their  several  portraits,  you  would  own 

Chaucer  had  no  such  worthy  crew, 
Nor  Boccace  in  Decameron. 

"\  \  TE  crossed  Champlain  to  Keeseville  with  our 
T  *      friends, 

Thence,  in  strong  country  carts,  rode  up  the  forks 
Of  the  Ausable  stream,  intent  to  reach 
The  Adirondac  lakes.    At  Martin's  Beach 
We  chose  our  boats;  each  man  a  boat  and  guide, — 
Ten  men,  ten  guides,  our  company  all  told. 

Next  morn,  we  swept  with  oars  the  Saranac, 
With  skies  of  benediction,  to  Round  Lake, 
Where  all  the  sacred  mountains  drew  around  us, 
Tahawus,  Seaward,  Maclntyre,  Baldhead, 
And  other  Titans  without  muse  or  name. 
Pleased  with  these  grand  companions,  we  glide  on, 
Instead  of  flowers,  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  hills. 
We  made  our  distance  wider,  boat  from  boat, 
As  each  would  hear  the  oracle  alone. 
By  the  bright  morn  the  gay  flotilla  slid 
Through  files  of  flags  that  gleamed  like  bayonets, 
Through    gold-moth-haunted    beds    of    pickerel 

flower, 

Through  scented  banks  of  lilies  white  and  gold, 
Where  the  deer  feeds  at  night,  the  teal  by  day, 


THE  ADIRONDACS  331 

On  through  the  upper  Saranac,  and  up 
Pere  Raquette  stream,  to  a  small  tortuous  pass 
Winding  through  grassy  shallows  in  and  out, 
Two  creeping  miles  of  rushes,  pads  and  sponge, 
To  Follansbee  Water  and  the  Lake  of  Loons. 

Northward  the  length  of  Follansbee  we  rowed, 
Under  low  mountains,  whose  unbroken  ridge 
Ponderous  with  beechen  forest  sloped  the  shore. 
A  pause  and  council:  then,  where  near  the  head 
Due  east  a  bay  makes  inward  to  the  land 
Between  two  rocky  arms,  we  climb  the  bank, 
And  in  the  twilight  of  the  forest  noon 
Wield  the  first  ax  these  echoes  ever  heard. 
We  cut  young  trees  to  make  our  poles  and  thwarts, 
Barked  the  white  spruce  to  weatherfend  the  roof, 
Then  struck  a  light  and  kindled  the  camp-fire. 

The  wood  was  sovran  with  centennial  trees, — 
Oak,  cedar,  maple,  poplar,  beech  and  fir, 
Linden  and  spruce.    In  strict  society 
Three  conifers,  white,  pitch  and  Norway  pine, 
Five-leaved,  three-leaved  and  two-leaved,  grew 

thereby. 

Our  patron  pine  was  fifteen  feet  in  girth, 
The  maple  eight,  beneath  its  shapely  tower. 

'  Welcome ! '  the  wood-god  murmured  through 

the  leaves, — 

'Welcome,  though  late,  unknowing,  yet  known  to 
me.' 


332  NEW  YORK 

Evening  drew  on;  stars  peeped  through  maple- 
boughs, 

Which  o'erhung,  like  a  cloud,  our  camping  fire. 
Decayed  millennial  trunks,  like  moonlight  flecks, 
Lit  with  phosphoric  crumbs  the  forest  floor. 

Ten  scholars,  wonted  to  lie  warm  and  soft 
In  well-hung  chambers  daintily  bestowed, 
Lie  here  on  hemlock-boughs,  like  Sacs  and  Sioux, 
And  greet  unanimous  the  joyful  change. 
***** 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

My  Own  Dark  Genesee       <^     -^>     <^>     <^> 

(Genesee  River) 

T^HEY  told  me  southern  land  could  boast 
-^      Charms  richer  than  mine  own: 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  of  brighter  glow, 

And  winds  of  gentler  tone; 
And  parting  from  each  olden  haunt, 

Familiar  rock  and  tree, 
From  that  sweet  vale  I  wandered  far — 

Washed  by  the  Genesee. 

I  pined  beneath  a  foreign  sky, 
Though  birds,  like  harps  in  tune, 

Lulled  Winter  on  a  couch  of  flowers 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  June. 


GENESEE   RIVER  333 

In  vain  on  reefs  of  coral  broke 

The  glad  waves  of  the  sea ; 
For,  like  thy  voice  they  sounded  not, 

My  own  dark  Genesee ! 


When  Christmas  came,  though  round  me  grew 

The  lemon-tree  and  lime, 
And  the  warm  sky  above  me  threw 

The  blue  of  summer-time; 
I  thought  of  my  loved  northern  home, 

And  wished  for  wings  to  flee 
Where  frost-bound,  between  frozen  banks, 

Lay  hushed  the  Genesee. 

For  the  gray,  mossed  paternal  roof 

My  throbbing  bosom  yearned, 
And  ere  the  flight  of  many  moons 

My  steps  I  homeward  turned; 
My  heart,  to  joy  a  stranger  long, 

Was  tuned  to  rapture's  key, 
When  ear  the  murmur  heard  once  more 

Of  my  own  Genesee. 

Ambition  from  the  scenes  of  youth 

May  others  lure  away 
To  chase  the  phantom  of  renown 

Throughout  their  little  day; 


334  NEW  YORK 

I  would  not,  for  a  palace  proud 

And  slave  of  pliant  knee, 
Forsake  a  cabin  in  thy  vale, 

My  own  dark  Genesee. 

William  Henry  Cuyler  Hosmer. 

Niagara        <^>     <^>     <o     <^     *o     <o     *o> 

From  Tales  and  Sketches 

that  I  had  never  heard  of  Niagara  till  I 
beheld  it!  Blessed  were  the  wanderers  of 
old,  who  heard  its  deep  roar,  sounding  through  the 
woods,  as  the  summons  to  an  unknown  wonder, 
and  approached  its  awful  brink,  in  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  native  feeling.  Had  its  own  mysterious 
voice  been  the  first  to  warn  me  of  its  existence, 
then,  indeed,  I  might  have  knelt  down  and  wor- 
shiped. But  I  had  come  thither,  haunted  with  a 
vision  of  foam  and  fury,  and  dizzy  cliffs,  and  an 
ocean  tumbling  down  out  of  the  sky, — a  scene,  in 
short,  which  nature  had  too  much  good  taste  and 
calm  simplicity  to  realize. 

***** 

There  were  intervals  when  I  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  great  river,  rolling  calmly  into  the 
abyss,  rather  descending  than  precipitating  itself, 
and  acquiring  tenfold  majesty  from  its  unhurried 
motion.  It  came  like  the  march  of  Destiny.  It 
was  not  taken  by  surprise,  but  seemed  to  have 


NIAGARA  335 

anticipated,  in  all  its  course  through  the  broad 
lakes,  that  it  must  pour  their  collected  waters 
down  this  height.  The  perfect  foam  of  the  river, 
after  its  descent,  and  the  ever- varying  shapes  of 
mist,  rising  up  to  become  clouds  in  the  sky,  would 
be  the  very  picture  of  confusion,  were  it  merely 
transient  like  the  rage  of  the  tempest.  But  when 
the  beholder  has  stood  awhile,  and  perceives  no 
lull  in  the  storm,  and  considers  that  the  vapor  and 
the  foam  are  as  everlasting  as  the  rocks  which  pro- 
duce them,  all  this  turmoil  assumes  a  sort  of  calm- 
ness. It  soothes,  while  it  awes  the  mind. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

The  Cataract  Isle      ^>      ^>      ^      ^      <^y 

(Niagara) 

T  WANDERED  through  the  ancient  wood 
•*•      That  crowns  the  cataract  isle. 
I  heard  the  roaring  of  the  flood 
And  saw  its  wild,  fierce  smile. 

Through  tall  tree-tops  the  sunshine  flecked 
The  huge  trunks  and  the  ground, 

And  the  pomp  of  fullest  summer  decked 
The  island  all  around. 

And  winding  paths  led  all  along 
Where  friends  and  lovers  strayed, 

And  voices  rose  with  laugh  and  song 
From  sheltered  nooks  of  shade. 


336  NEW  YORK 

Through  opening  forest  vistas  whirled 

The  rapids'  foamy  flash, 
As  they  boiled  along  and  plunged  and  swirled, 

And  neared  the  last  long  dash. 

I  crept  to  the  island's  outer  verge, 
Where  the  grand,  broad  river  fell, — 

Fell  sheer  down  mid  foam  and  surge 
In  a  white  and  blinding  hell. 

The  steady  rainbow  gayly  shone 

Above  the  precipice, 
And  the  deep  low  tone  of  a  thunder  groan 

Rolled  up  from  the  drear  abyss. 

And  all  the  day  sprang  up  the  spray 

Where  the  broad  white  sheets  were  poured, 
-  And  fell  around  in  showery  play, 
Or  upward  curled  and  soared. 

And  all  the  night  those  sheets  of  white 
Gleamed  through  the  spectral  mist, 

When  o'er  the  isle  the  broad  moonlight 
The  wintry  foam-flakes  kissed. 

Mirrored  within  my  dreamy  thought, 

I  see  it,  feel  it  all, — 
That  island 'with  sweet  visions  fraught, 

That  awful  waterfall. 


NIAGARA  337 

With  sunflecked  trees,  and  birds  and  flowers, 

The  Isle  of  Life  is  fair; 
But  one  deep  voice  thrills  through  its  hours, 

One  spectral  form  is  there, — 

A  power  no  mortal  can  resist, 

Rolling  forever  on, — 
A  floating  cloud,  a  shadowy  mist, 

Eternal  undertone. 

• 
And  through  the  sunny  vistas  gleam 

The  fate,  the  solemn  smile. 
Life  is  Niagara's  rushing  stream; 

Its  dreams — that  peaceful  isle ! 

Christopher  Pearse  Cranch. 


Niagara 


HPHE  WATER  TALKED  TO  THE  TURBINE 
•*•     AT  THE  INTAKE'S  COUCHANT  KNEE: 
Brother,  thy  mouth  is  darkness 
Devouring  me. 

I  rush  at  the  whirl  of  thy  bidding; 

I  pour  and  spend 
Through  the  wheel-pit's  nether  tempest. 

Brother,  the  end  ? 


338  NEW  YORK 

Before  fierce  days  of  tent  and  javelin, 
Before  the  cloudy  kings  of  Ur, 

Before  the  Breath  upon  the  waters, 
My  splendors  were. 


Red  hurricanes  of  roving  worlds, 

Huge  wallow  of  the  uncharted  Sea, 
The  formless  births  of  fluid  stars, 

Remember  me. 
A  glacial  dawn,  the  smcfce  of  rainbows, 

The  swiftness  of  the  canoned  west, 
The  steadfast  column  of  white  volcanoes, 

Leap  from  my  breast. 


But  now,  subterranean,  mirthless, 

I  tug  and  strain, 
Beating  out  a  dance  thou  hast  taught  me 

With  penstock,  cylinder,  vane. 
I  am  more  delicate  than  moonlight, 

Grave  as  the  thunder's  rocking  brow; 
I  am  genesis,  revelation, 

Yet  less  than  thou. 


By  this  I  adjure  thee,  brother, 

Beware  to  offend! 
For  the  least,  the  dumbfounded  the  conquered, 

Shall  judge  in  the  end. 


NIAGARA  339 

THE  TURBINE  TALKED  TO  THE  MAN 
AT  THE  SWITCHBOARD'S  CRYPTIC  KEY: 

Brother,  thy  touch  is  whirlwind 
Consuming  me. 

I  revolve  at  the  pulse  of  thy  finger, 

Millions  of  power  I  flash 
For  the  muted  and  ceaseless  cables 

And  the  engine's  crash. 
Like  Samson,  fettered,  blindfolded, 

I  sweat  at  my  craft; 
But  I  build  a  temple  I  know  not, 

Driver  and  ring  and  shaft. 

Wheat-field  and  tunnel  and  furnace, 

They  tremble  and  are  aware. 
But  beyond  thou  compellest  me,  brother, 

Beyond  these,  where? 
Singing  like  sunrise  on  battle, 

I  travail  as  hills  that  bow; 
I  am  wind  and  fire  of  prophecy, 

Yet  less  than  thou. 


By  this  I  adjure  thee,  brother, 

Be  slow  to  of  end! 
For  the  least,  the  blindfolded,  the  conquered, 

Shall  judge  in  the  end. 


340  NEW  YORK 

THE  MAN  STROVE  WITH  HIS  MAKER 

AT  THE  CLANG  OF  THE  POWER-HOUSE  DOOR: 

Lord,  Lord,  Thou  art  unsearchable, 
Troubling  me  sore. 

I  have  thrust  my  spade  to  the  caverns; 

I  have  yoked  the  cataract; 
I  have  counted  the  steps  of  the  planets, 

What  thing  have  I  lacked  ? 
I  am  come  to  a  goodly  country, 

Where,  putting  my  hand  to  the  plow, 
I  have  not  considered  the  lilies, 

Am  I  less  than  Thou? 

THE  MAKER  SPAKE  WITH  THE  MAN 

AT  THE  TERMINAL-HOUSE  OF  THE  LINE: 

For  delight  wouldst  thou  have  desolation, 

O  brother  mine, 
And  flaunt  on  the  highway  of  nations 

A  byword  and  sign? 

Have  I  fashioned  thee  then  in  my  image 

And  quickened  thy  spirit  of  old, 
If  thou  spoil  my  garments  of  wonder 

For  a  handful  of  gold  ? 
I  wrought  for  thy  glittering  possession 

The  waterfall's  glorious  lust; 
It  is  genesis,  revelation, — 

Wilt  thou  grind  it  to  dust? 


AT  NIAGARA  341 

Niagara,  the  genius  of  freedom, 

A  creature  for  base  command  ! 
Thy  soul  is  the  pottage  thou  sellest: 

Withhold  thy  hand. 
Or  take  him  and  bind  him  and  make  him 

A  magnificent  slave  if  thou  must  — 
But  remember  that  beauty  is  treasure 

And  gold  is  dust. 

Yea,  thou,  returned  to  the  fertile  ground 

In  the  humble  days  to  be, 
Shalt  learn  that  he  who  slays  a  splendor 

Has  murdered  Me. 
By  this  I  adjure  thee,  brother, 

Beware  to  of  end  I 
For  the  least,  the  extinguished,  the  conquered, 

Shall  judge  in  the  end. 

Florence  Wilkinson. 

At  Niagara  ^>     o     <^>     <^>     ^>     ^>     <^> 


'"PHERE  at  the  chasm's  edge  behold  her  lean 
-*•  Trembling  as,  'neath  the  charm, 
A  wild  bird  lifts  no  wing  to  'scape  from  harm; 
Her  very  soul  drawn  to  the  glittering,  green, 
Smooth,  lustrous,  awful,  lovely  curve  of  peril; 
While  far  below  the  bending  sea  of  beryl 
Thunder  and  tumult  —  whence  a  billowy  spray 
Enclouds  the  day. 


342  NEW  YORK 


What  dream  is  hers?     No  dream  hath  wrought 

that  spell ! 

The  long  waves  rise  and  sink; 
Pity  that  virgin  soul  on  passion's  brink, 
Confronting  Fate, — swift,  unescapable, — 
Fate,  which  of  nature  is  the  intent  and  core, 
And  dark  and  strong  as  the  steep  river's  pour, 
Cruel  as  love,  and  wild  as  love's  first  kiss ! 
Ah,  God!    The  abyss! 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


Perry's  Victory  on  Lake  Erie      *o>     -=^>     <^> 

(Lake  Erie) 

"DRIGHT  was  the  morn, — the  waveless  bay 
*-*     Shone  like  a  mirror  to  the  sun; 
Mid  greenwood  shades  and  meadows  gay, 
The  matin  birds  their  lays  begun: 
While  swelling  o'er  the  gloomy  wood 
Was  heard  the  faintly  echoed  roar, — 
The  dashing  of  the  foamy  flood, 
That  beat  on  Erie's  distant  shore. 

The  tawny  wanderer  of  the  wild 
Paddled  his  painted  birch  canoe, 
And,  where  the  wave  serenely  smiled, 
Swift  as  the  darting  falcon,  flew; 


LAKE   ERIE  343 

He  rowed  along  that  peaceful  bay, 
And  glanced  its  polished  surface  o'er, 
Listening  the  billow  far  away, 
That  rolled  on  Erie's  lonely  shore. 

What  sounds  awake  my  slumbering  ear? 

What  echoes  o'er  the  waters  come  ? 

It  is  the  morning  gun  I  hear, 

The  rolling  of  the  distant  drum. 

Far  o'er  the  bright  illumined  wave 

I  mark  the  flash, — I  hear  the  roar, 

That  calls  from  sleep  the  slumbering  brave, 

To  fight  on  Erie's  lonely  shore. 

See  how  the  starry  banner  floats, 
And  sparkles  in  the  morning  ray: 
While  sweetly  swell  the  fife's  gay  notes 
In  echoes  o'er  the  gleaming  bay: 
Flash  follows  flash,  as  through  yon  fleet 
Columbia's  cannons  loudly  roar, 
And  valiant  tars  the  battle  greet, 
That  storms  on  Erie's  echoing  shore. 

0,  who  can  tell  what  deeds  were  done, 
When  Britain's  cross,  on  yonder  wave, 
Sunk  'neath  Columbia's  dazzling  sun, 
And  met  in  Erie's  flood  its  grave? 
Who  tell  the  triumphs  of  that  day, 
When,  smiling  at  the  cannon's  roar, 
Our  hero,  mid  the  bloody  fray, 
Conquered  on  Erie's  echoing  shore? 


344  NEW  JERSEY 

Though  many  a  wounded  bosom  bleeds 
For  sire,  for  son,  for  lover  dear, 
Yet  Sorrow  smiles  amid  her  weeds, — 
Affliction  dries  her  tender  tear; 
Oh !  she  exclaims,  with  glowing  pride, 
With  ardent  thoughts  that  wildly  soar, 
My  sire,  my  son,  my  lover  died, 
Conquering  on  Erie's  bloody  shore ! 
***** 

James  Gates  Percival. 


NEW  JERSEY 
The  Falls  of  the  Passaic      <^>     <^>     <^>     <>y 

(Passaic  River) 

TN  a  wild,  tranquil  vale,  fringed  with  forests  of 
•^    green, 

Where  nature  had  fashioned  a  soft,  sylvan  scene, 
The  retreat  of  the  ring-dove,  the  haunt  of  the 

deer, 
Passaic  in  silence  rolled  gentle  and  clear. 

No  grandeur  of  prospect  astonished  the  sight, 
No  abruptness  sublime  mingled  awe  with  delight; 
Here  the  wild  floweret  blossomed,  the  elm  proudly 

waved, 
And  pure  was  the  current  the  green  bank  that 

laved. 


PASSAIC   RIVER  345 

But  the  spirit  that  ruled  o'er  the  thick  tangled 

wood, 

And  deep  in  its  gloom  fixed  his  murky  abode, 
Who  loved  the  wild  scene  that  the  whirlwinds 

deform, 
And  gloried  in  thunder  and  lightning  and  storm; 


All  flushed  from  the  tumult  of  battle  he  came, 
Where  the  red  men  encountered  the  children  of 

flame, 
While  the  noise  of  the  war-whoop  still  rang  hi  his 

ears, 
And  the  fresh  bleeding  scalp  as  a  trophy  he  bears: 

With  a  glance  of  disgust,  he  the  landscape  sur- 
veyed, 

With  its  fragrant  wild-flowers,  its  wide  waving 
shade; 

Where  Passaic  meanders  through  margins  of  green, 

So  transparent  its  waters,  its  surface  serene. 


He  rived  the  green  hills,  the  wild  woods  he  laid 

low; 
He  taught  the  pure  stream  in  rough  channels  to 

flow; 

He  rent  the  rude  rock,  the  steep  precipice  gave, 
And  hurled  down  the  chasm  the  thundering  wave. 


346  NEW  JERSEY 

Countless  moons  have  since  rolled  in  the  long 

lapse  of  time, 

Cultivation  has  softened  those  features  sublime; 
The  ax  of  the  white  man  has  lightened  the  shade, 
And  dispelled  the  deep  gloom  of  the  thicketed 

glade. 


But  the  stranger  still  gazes,  with  wondering  eye, 
On  the  rocks  rudely  torn,  and  groves  mounted  on 

high; 

Still  loves  on  the  cliff's  dizzy  borders  to  roam, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  headlong,  embosomed  in 

foam. 

Washington  Irving. 


Fuit  Ilium 

(Elizabeth) 


WASHINGTON'S  HEADQUARTERS 


by  one  they  died,  — 
Last  of  all  their  race; 
Nothing  left  but  pride, 

Lace,  and  buckled  hose. 
Their  quietus  made, 

On  their  dwelling-place 
Ruthless  hands  are  laid: 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 


ELIZABETH  347 

See  the  ancient  manse 

•  Meet  its  fate  at  last ! 
Time,  in  his  advance, 

Age  nor  honor  knows; 
Ax  and  broadax  fall, 

Lopping  off  the  Past: 
Hit  with  bar  and  maul, 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Sevenscore  years  it  stood: 

Yes,  they  built  it  well, 

Though  they  built  of  wood, 

When  that  house  arose. 
For  its  cross-beams  square 

Oak  and  walnut  fell; 
Little  worse  for  wear, 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Rending  board  and  plank, 
Men  with  crowbars  ply, 
Opening  fissures  dank, 

Striking  deadly  blows. 
From  the  gabled  roof 

How  the  shingles  fly ! 
Keep  you  here  aloof, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Holding  still  its  place, 

There  the  chimney  stands, 
Stanch  from  top  to  base, 
Frowning  on  its  foes. 


348  NEW  JERSEY 

Heave  apart  the  stones, 
Burst  its  iron  bands  ! 
How  it  shakes  and  groans ! 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Round  the  mantel-piece 
Glisten  Scripture  tiles; 
Henceforth  they  shall  cease 
Painting  Egypt's  woes, 
Painting  David's  fight, 

Fair  Bathsheba's  smiles, 
Blinded  Samson's  might, — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

On  these  oaken  floors 

High-shoed  ladies  trod; 
Through  those  paneled  doors 
Trailed  their  furbelows: 
Long  their  day  has  ceased; 

Now,  beneath  the  sod, 
With  the  worms  they  feast, — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Many  a  bride  has  stood 
In  yon  spacious  room; 
Here  her  hand  was  wooed 
Underneath  the  rose; 
O'er  that  sill  the  dead 

Reached  the  family  tomb: 
All,  that  were,  have  fled, — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 


ELIZABETH  349 

Once,  in  yonder  hall, 

Washington,  they  say, 
Led  the  New- Year's  ball, 
Stateliest  of  beaux! 
O  that  minuet, 

Maids  and  matrons  gay ! 
Are  there  such  sights  yet  ? 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

British  troopers  came 

Ere  another  year, 
With  their  coats  aflame, 

Mincing  on  their  toes; 
Daughters  of  the  house 

Gave  them  haughty  cheer, 
Laughed  to  scorn  their  vows, — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Doorway  high  the  box 

In  the  grass-plot  spreads; 
It  has  borne  its  locks 

Through  a  thousand  snows; 
In  an  evil  day, 

From  those  garden-beds 
Now  'tis  hacked  away, — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Lo !  the  sycamores, 

Scathed  and  scrawny  mates, 
At  the  mansion  doors 
Shiver,  full  of  woes; 


35°  NEW  JERSEY 

With  its  life  they  grew, 

Guarded  well  its  gates; 
Now  their  task  is  through, — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

On  this  honored  site 

Modern  trade  will  build, — 
What  unseemly  fright 

Heaven  only  knows ! 
Something  peaked  and  high, 

Smacking  of  the  guild: 
Let  us  heave  a  sigh, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

The  Spur  of  Monmouth       ^y     *^>     <^>     <^ 

(Monmouth) 

"TWAS  a  little  brass  half-circlet, 

•*•      Deep  gnawed  by  rust  and  stain, 
That  the  farmer's  urchin  brought  me, 

Plowed  up  in  old  Monmouth's  plain ; 
On  that  spot  where  the  hot  June  sunshine 

Once  a  fire  more  deadly  knew, 
And  a  bloodier  color  reddened 

Where  the  red  June  roses  blew; — 

Where  the  moon  of  the  early  harvest 

Looked  down  through  the  shimmering  leaves, 

And  saw  where  the  reaper  of  battle 
Had  gathered  his  human  sheaves: 


MONMOUTH  351 

Old  Monmouth,  so  touched  with  glory, 

So  tinted  with  burning  shame, 
As  Washington's  pride  we  remember, 

Or  Lee's  long-tarnished  name. 

'Twas  a  little  brass  half-circlet; 

And  knocking  the  rust  away, 
And  clearing  the  ends  and  the  middle 

From  their  burial-shroud  of  clay, 
I  saw,  through  the  damp  of  ages, 

And  the  thick,  disfiguring  grime, 
The  buckle-heads  and  the  rowel 

Of  a  spur  of  the  olden  time. 

And  I  said,  "What  gallant  horseman, 

Who  revels  and  rides  no  more, 
Perhaps  twenty  years  back,  or  fifty, 

On  his  heel  that  weapon  wore  ? 
Was  he  riding  away  to  his  bridal, 

When  the  leather  snapped  in  twain  ? 
Was  he  thrown,  and  dragged  by  the  stirrup, 

With  the  rough  stones  crushing  his  brain  ?" 

Then  I  thought  of  the  Revolution, 

Whose  tide  still  onward  rolls; 
Of  the  free  and  the  fearless  riders, 

Of  the  "times  that  tried  men's  souls." 
What  if,  in  the  day  of  battle 

That  raged  and  rioted  here, 


352  NEW  JERSEY 

It  had  dropped  from  the  foot  of  a  soldier, 
As  he  rode  in  his  mad  career  ? 

What  if  it  had  ridden  with  Forman, 

When  he  leaped  through  the  open  door, 
With  the  British  dragoon  behind  him, 

In  his  race  o'er  the  granary-floor  ? 
What  if — but  the  brain  grows  dizzy 

With  the  thoughts  of  the  rusted  spur — 
What  if  it  had  fled  with  Clinton, 

Or  charged  with  Aaron  Burr  ? 

But  bravely  the  farmer's  urchin 

Had  been  scraping  the  rust  away; 
And,  cleaned  from  the  soil  that  swathed  it, 

The  spur  before  me  lay. 
Here  are  holes  in  the  outer  circle; 

No  common  heel  it  has  known, 
For  each  space,  I  see  by  the  setting, 

Once  held  some  precious  stone. 

And  here,  not  far  from  the  buckle — 

Do  my  eyes  deceive  their  sight? — 
Two  letters  are  here  engraven, 

That  initial  a  hero's  might ! — 
"  G.  W. ! "    Saints  of  heaven  !— 

Can  such  things  in  our  lives  occur  ? 
Do  I  grasp  such  a  priceless  treasure  ? 

Was  this  George  Washington's  spur  ? 


MONMOUTH  353 

Did  the  brave  old  Pater  Patriae 

Wear  that  spur,  like  a  belted  knight, — 
Wear  it,  through  gain  and  disaster, 

From  Cambridge  to  Monmouth  fight  ? 
Did  it  press  his  steed  in  hot  anger 

On  Long  Island's  day  of  pain  ? 
Did  it  drive  him  at  terrible  Princeton 

'Tween  two  streams  of  leaden  rain  ? 

And  here  did  the  buckles  loosen, 

And  no  eye  look  down  to  see, 
When  he  rode  to  blast  with  the  lightning 

The  defiant  eyes  of  Lee  ? 
Did  it  fall,  unfelt  and  unheeded, 

When  that  fight  of  despair  was  won, 
And  Clinton,  worn  and  discouraged, 

Crept  away  at  the  set  of  the  sun  ? 

The  lips  have  long  been  silent 

That  could  send  an  answer  back; 
And  the  spur,  all  broken  and  rusted, 

Has  it  forgotten  its  rider's  track  ? 
I  only  know  that  the  pulses 

Leap  hot,  and  the  senses  reel, 
When  I  think  that  the  Spur  of  Monmouth 

May  have  clasped  George   Washington's 
heel! 

Henry  Morford. 


354  DELAWARE 

DELAWARE 
Peach-Blossoms    -x>    ^>     <^     ^>     *^> 

T   IGHTLY  the  hoar-frost  freezes 
•*-*    The  young  grass  of  the  field, 
Nor  yet  have  blander  breezes 

The  buds  of  the  oak  unsealed; 
Not  yet  pours  out  the  vine 
His  airy  resinous  wine; 
But  over  the  southern  slope 
The  wands  of  the  peach-tree  first 
Into  rosy  beauty  burst; 
A  breath,  and  the  sweet  buds  ope ! 
A  day,  and  the  orchards  bare, 
Like  maids  in  haste  to  be  fair, 
Lightly  themselves  adorn 
With  a  scarf  the  Spring  at  the  door 
Has  sportively  flung  before, 

Or  a  stranded  cloud  of  the  morn ! 
*  *  #  *  * 

Afar,  through  the  mellow  hazes 

Where  the  dreams  of  June  are  stayed, 
The  hills,  in  their  vanishing  mazes, 

Carry  the  flush,  and  fade ! 
Southward  they  fall,  and  reach 
To  the  bay  and  the  ocean  beach, 
Where  the  soft,  half-Syrian  air 
Blows  from  the  Chesapeake's 
Inlets,  coves,  and  creeks 
On  the  fields  of  Delaware ! 


PENNSYLVANIA  355 

And  the  rosy  lakes  of  flowers, 
That  here  alone  are  ours, 
Spread  into  seas  that  pour 
Billow  and  spray  of  pink, 
Even  to  the  blue  wave's  brink, 
All  down  the  Eastern  Shore! 
***** 

Bayard  Taylor. 

PENNSYLVANIA 
From  The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim        <^>     <^x- 

(Pennsylvania) 

1VTEVER  in  tenderer  quiet  lapsed  the  day 

*•  ^     From  Pennsylvania's  vales  of  spring  away, 

Where,  forest-walled,  the  scattered  hamlets  lay 

Along  the  wedded  rivers.    One  long  bar 
Of  purple  cloud,  on  which  the  evening  star 
Shone  like  a  jewel  on  a  scimitar, 

Held  the  sky's  golden  gateway.   Through  the  deep 
Hush  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to  creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of  sleep. 

All  else  was  still.    The  oxen  from  their  plows 
Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's  browse 
Came  the  dun  files  of  Krisheim's    home-bound 
cows. 


356  PENNSYLVANIA 

And  the  young  city,  round  whose  virgin  zone 
The  rivers  like  two  mighty  arms  were  thrown, 
Marked  by  the  smoke  of  evening  fires  alone, 

Lay  in  the  distance,  lovely  even  then 
With  its  fair  women  and  its  stately  men 
Gracing  the  forest  court  of  William  Penn, 

Urban  yet  sylvan;  in  its  rough-hewn  frames 
Of  oak  and  pine  the  dryads  held  their  claims, 
And   lent   its    streets   their  pleasant  woodland 
names. 
***** 

Was  it  caressing  air,  the  brooding  love 

Of  tenderer  skies  than  German  land  knew  of, 

Green  calm  below,  blue  quietness  above, 

Still  flow  of  water,  deep  repose  of  wood 
That,  with  a  sense  of  loving  Fatherhood 
And  childlike  trust  in  the  Eternal  Good, 

Softened  all  hearts,  and  dulled  the  edge  of  hate, 
Hushed  strife,  and  taught  impatient  zeal  to  wait 
The  slow  assurance  of  the  better  state  ? 

Who  knows  what  goadings  in  their  sterner  way 
O'er  jagged  ice,  relieved  by  granite  gray, 
Blew  round  the  men  of  Massachusetts  Bay  ? 


PENNSYLVANIA  357 

What  hate  of  heresy  the  east-wind  woke  ? 
What  hints  of  pitiless  power  and  terror  spoke 
In  waves  that  on  their  iron  coast-line  broke  ? 

Be  it  as  it  may;  within  the  Land  of  Penn 

The  sectary  yielded  to  the  citizen, 

And  peaceful  dwelt  the  many-creeded  men. 

Peace  brooded  over  all.    No  trumpet  stung 
The  air  to  madness,  and  no  steeple  flung 
Alarums  down  from  bells  at  midnight  rung. 

x 

The  land  slept  well.  The  Indian  from  his  face 
Washed  all  his  war-paint  off,  and  in  the  place 
Of  battle-marches  sped  the  peaceful  chase, 

Or  wrought  for  wages  at  the  white  man's  side, — 
Giving  to  kindness  what  his  native  pride 
And  lazy  freedom  to  all  else  denied. 

And  well  the  curious  scholar  loved  the  old 

Traditions  that  his  swarthy  neighbors  told 

By  wigwam-fires  when  nights  were  growing  cold, 

Discerned  the  fact  round  which  their  fancy  drew 
Its  dreams,  and  held  their  childish  faith  more  true 
To  God  and  man  than  half  the  creeds  he  knew. 


358  PENNSYLVANIA 

• 

The  desert  blossomed  round  him;  wheat-fields 

rolled, 

Beneath  the  warm  wind,  waves  of  green  and  gold; 
The  planted  ear  returned  its  hundredfold. 

Great  clusters  ripened  in  a  warmer  sun 

Than  that  which  by  the  Rhine  stream  shines  upon 

The  purpling  hillsides  with  low  vines  o'errun. 

About  each  rustic  porch  the  humming-bird 
Tried  with  light  bill,  that  scarce  a  petal  stirred, , 
The  Old  World  flowers  to  virgin  soil  transferred; 

And  the  first-fruits  of  pear  and  apple,  bending 
The  young  boughs  down,  their  gold  and  russet 

blending, 
Made  glad  his  heart,  familiar  odors  lending 

To  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the  birch  and  pine, 

Life-everlasting,  bay,  and  eglantine, 

And  all  the  subtle  scents  the  woods  combine. 

Fair  First-Day  mornings,  steeped  in  summer  calm 
Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  woodland  balm, 
Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed  psalm 

To  the  tired  grinder  at  the  noisy  wheel 
Of  labor,  winding  off  from  memory's  reel 
A  golden  thread  of  music.    With  no  peal 


PENNSYLVANIA  359 

Of  bells  to  call  them  to  the  house  of  praise, 
The  scattered  settlers  through  green  forest-ways 
Walked  meeting-ward.    In  reverent  amaze 

The  Indian  trapper  saw  them,  from  the  dim 

Shade  of  the  alders  on  the  rivulet's  rim, 

Seek  the  Great  Spirit's  house  to  talk  with  Him. 

There,  through  the  gathered  stillness  multiplied 
And  made  intense  by  sympathy,  outside 
The  sparrows  sang,  and  the  gold-robin  cried, 

A-swing  upon  his  elm.    A  faint  perfume 
Breathed  through  the  open  windows  of  the  room 
From  locust-trees,  heavy  with  clustered  bloom. 

Thither,  perchance,  sore-tried  confessors  came, 
Whose  fervor  jail  nor  pillory  could  tame, 
Proud  of  the  cropped  ears  meant  to  be  their 
shame, 

Men  who  had  eaten  slavery's  bitter  bread 
In  Indian  isles:  pale  women  who  had  bled 
Under  the  hangman's  lash,  and  bravely  said 

God's  message  through  their  prison's  iron  bars; 
And  gray  old  soldier-converts,  seamed  with  scars 
From  every  stricken  field  of  England's  wars. 


360  PENNSYLVANIA 

Lowly  before  the  Unseen  Presence  knelt 
Each  waiting  heart,  till  haply  some  one  felt 
On  his  moved  lips  the  seal  of  silence  melt. 

Or,  without  spoken  words,  low  breathings  stole 
Of  a  diviner  life  from  soul  to  soul, 
Baptizing  in  one  tender  thought  the  whole. 

When  shaken  hands  announced  the  meeting  o'er, 
The  friendly  group  still  lingered  at  the  door, 
Greeting,  inquiring,  sharing  all  the  store 

Of  weekly  tidings.    Meanwhile  youth  and  maid 
Down  the  green  vistas  of  the  woodland  strayed, 
Whispered  and  smiled  and  oft  their  feet  delayed. 

Did  the  boy's  whistle  answer  back  the  thrushes  ? 
Did  light  girl  laughter  ripple  through  the  bushes 
As  brooks  make  merry  over  roots  and  rushes  ? 

Unvexed  the  sweet  air  seemed.    Without  a  wound 
The  ear  of  silence  heard,  and  every  sound 
Its  place  in  nature's  fine  accordance  found. 

And  solemn  meeting,  summer  sky  and  wood, 
Old  kindly  faces,  youth  and  maidenhood 
Seemed,  like  God's  new  creation,  very  good  ! 
***** 

John  Greenleaf  Whiltier, 


PHILADELPHIA  361 


From  Evangeline  <z>    ^>    <z>    ^>    <^>     <^» 

(.Philadelphia) 

TN  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the 

-^    Delaware's  waters, 

Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the 

apostle, 
Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the 

city  he  founded. 
There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the 

emblem  of  beauty, 
And  the  streets  still  re-echo  the  names  of  the  trees 

of  the  forest, 
As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose 

haunts  they  molested. 
There  from  the  troubled   sea   had  Evangeline 

landed,  an  exile, 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and  a 

country. 
There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died;  and  when  he 

departed, 
Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descend- 

ants. 
Something  at  least  there   was  in  the  friendly 

streets  of  the  city, 
Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her 

no  longer  a  stranger; 


362  PHILADELPHIA 

And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and  Thou 

of  the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country, 
Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were  brothers 

and  sisters. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  SOUTH 

I  love  the  stately   southern  mansions    with  their  tall    white 

columns; 
They    look  through  avenues  of  trees,  over  fields  where  the 

cotton  is  growing; 

I  can  see  the  flutter  of  white  frocks  along  their  shady  porches, 
Music  and  laughter  float  from  the  windows,  the  yards  are  full 

of  hounds  and  horses; 

They  have  all  ridden  away,  yet  the  houses  have  not  forgotten; 
They  are  proud  of  their  name  and  place,  but  their  doors  are 

always  open, 
For  the  thing  they  remember  best  is  the  pride  of  their  ancient 

hospitality. 

Henry  -van  Dyke. 


O  Magnet-South    ^>    <^>    <ix    <^>    <^>    <o 

O  MAGNET-SOUTH !  O  glistening  perfumed 
South !  my  South ! 
O  quick  mettle,  rich  blood,  impulse  and  love! 

good  and  evil !  O  all  dear  to  me ! 
O  dear  to  me  my  birth-things — all  moving  things 

and  the  trees  where  I  was  born — the  grains, 

plants,  rivers, 
Dear  to  me  my  own  slow  sluggish  rivers  where 

they  flow,  distant,  over  flats  of  silvery  sands 

or  through  swamps, 
Dear  to  me  the  Roanoke,  the  Savannah,  the  Alta- 

mahaw,  the  Pedee,  the  Tombigbee,  the  San- 
tee,  the  Coosa  and  the  Sabine. 

0  pensive,  far  away  wandering,  I  return  with  my 

soul  to  haunt  their  banks  again, 
Again. in  Florida  I  float  on  transparent  lakes,  I 
float  on  the  Okeechobee,  I  cross  the  hum- 
mock-land or  through  pleasant  openings  or 
dense  forests, 

1  see  the  parrots  in  the  woods,  I  see  the  papaw- 

tree  and  the  blossoming  titi; 
Again,  sailing  in  my  coaster  on  deck,  I  coast  off 

Georgia,  I  coast  up  the  Carolinas, 
I  see  where  the  live-oak  is  growing,  I  see  where  the 

yellow-pine,  the  scented  bay-tree,  the  lemon 
365 


366  THE   SOUTH 

and  orange,  the  cypress,  the  graceful  pal- 
metto. 

I  pass  rude  sea-headlands,  and  enter  Pamlico 
sound  through  an  inlet,  and  dart  my  vision 
inland; 

O  the  cotton  plant!  the  growing  fields  of  rice, 
sugar,  hemp ! 

The  cactus  guarded  with  thorns,  the  laurel-tree 
with  large  white  flowers, 

The  range  afar,  the  richness  and  barrenness,  the 
old  woods  charged  with  mistletoe  and  trail- 
ing moss, 

The  piney  odor  and  the  gloom,  the  awful  natural 
stillness  (here  in  these  dense  swamps  the 
freebooter  carries  his  gun,  and  the  fugitive 
has  his  conceal'd  hut;) 

O  the  strange  fascination  of  these  half-known 
half-impassable  swamps,  infested  by  rep- 
tiles, resounding  with  the  bellow  of  the 
alligator,  the  sad  noises  of  the  night-owl  and 
the  wildcat,  and  the  whirr  of  the  rattle- 
snake, 

The  mocking-bird,  the  American  mimic,  singing 
all  the  forenoon,  singing  through  the  moon- 
lit night, 

The  humming-bird,  the  wild  turkey,  the  raccoon, 
the  opossum; 

A  Kentucky  corn-field,  the  tall,  graceful,  long- 
leav'd  corn,  slender,  flapping,  bright  green, 


TO  THE   MOCKING-BIRD  367 

with  tassels,  with  beautiful  ears  each  well- 

sheath'd  in  its  husk; 
O  my  heart!  0  tender  and  fierce  pangs,  I  can 

stand  them  not,  I  will  depart; 
0  to  be  a  Virginian  where  I  grew  up !  O  to  be  a 

Carolinian ! 
0  longings  irrepressible !    O  I  will  go  back  to  old 

Tennessee  and  never  wander  more. 

Walt  Whitman. 


To  the  Mocking-Bird   <^*    <^>     <^     <^>     ^> 

WINGED  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou  motley 
fool! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe? 
Thine  ever  ready  notes  of  ridicule 
Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe. 
Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 
To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule ! 
For  such  thou  art  by  day — but  all  night  long 
Thou  pourest  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 
As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  complain, 
Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 

Richard  Henry  Wilde. 


368  THE   SOUTH 

MARYLAND 
Barbara  Frietchie  -x>    <^x    ^*    *o    -^    <^ 

(Frederick  City) 

T  TP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
^     Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall, — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 


FREDERICK  CITY  369 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced:  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast, 
"Fire!"— out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 


370  THE  SOUTH 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word: 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !    March  on !"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 


WASHINGTON  371 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


DISTRICT  OF  COLUMBIA 
The  White  House  by  Moonlight*^     ^>     <^> 

(Washington) 

A  SPELL  of  fine  soft  weather.  I  wander  about 
**•  a  good  deal,  sometimes  at  night  under  the 
moon.  To-night  took  a  long  look  at  the  Presi- 
dent's house.  The  white  portico — the  palace-like, 
tall,  round  columns,  spotless  as  snow — the  walls 
also — the  tender  and  soft  moonlight,  flooding  the 
pale  marble,  and  making  peculiar  faint  languish- 
ing shades,  not  shadows — everywhere  a  soft  trans- 
parent hazy,  thin,  blue  moon-lace,  hanging  in 
the  air — the  brilliant  and  extra-plentiful  clusters 
of  gas,  on  and  around  facade,  columns,  portico, 
etc. — everything  so  white,  so  marbly  pure  and 
dazzling,  yet  soft — the  White  House  of  future 
poems,  and  of  dreams  and  dramas,  there  in  the 
soft  and  copious  moon — the  gorgeous  front,  in  the 
trees,  under  the  lustrous  flooding  moon,  full  of 


372  THE   SOUTH 

reality,  full  of  illusion — the  forms  of  the  trees,  leaf- 
less, silent,  in  trunk  and  myriad-angles  of  branches 
under  the  stars  and  sky — the  White  House  of  the 
land,  and  of  beauty  and  night — sentries  at  the 
gates,  and  by  the  portico,  silent,  pacing  there  in 
blue  overcoats.  Walt  Whitman. 


VIRGINIA 
Pocahontas  ^>     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^y 

"\  1  7EARIED  arm  and  broken  sword 
*  *      Wage  in  vain  the  desperate  fight : 

Round  him  press  a  countless  horde, 
He  is  but  a  single  knight. 

Hark !  a  cry  of  triumph  shrill 
Through  the  wilderness  resounds, 
As  with  twenty  bleeding  wounds, 

Sinks  the  warrior,  fighting  still. 

Now  they  heap  the  fatal  pyre, 

And  the  torch  of  death  they  light. 

Oh !  'tis  hard  to  die  of  fire ! 

Who  will  shield  the  captive  knight? 

Round  the  stake  with  fiendish  cry 
Wheel  and  dance  the  savage  crowd, 
Cold  the  victim's  mien,  and  proud, 

And  his  breast  is  bared  to  die. 


THE  POTOMAC  RIVER  373 

Who  will  shield  the  fearless  heart? 

Who  avert  the  murderous  blade  ? 
From  the  throng,  with  sudden  start, 

See  there  springs  an  Indian  maid. 
Quick  she  stands  before  the  knight, 

"Loose  the  chain,  unbind  the  ring, 

I  am  daughter  of  the  king, 
And  I  claim  the  Indian  right ! " 

Dauntlessly  aside  she  flings 

Lifted  ax  and  thirsty  knife; 
Fondly  to  his  heart  she  clings, 

And  her  bosom  guards  his  life ! 
In  the  woods  of  Powhattan, 

Still  'tis  told  by  Indian  fires, 

How  a  daughter  of  their  sires 
Saved  the  captive  Englishman. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac      <^>     -^>    ^ 

(The  Potomac  River) 

"  A  LL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
•**•  "Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing — a  private  or  two  now  and  then 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 


374  THE   SOUTH 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother;  may  Heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 
The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 


MOUNT  VERNON  375 

Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of 

light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night- wind  that  rustled  the 

leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  .  .  .  "  Ha !  Mary,  good-bye ! " 
The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — • 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever ! 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 


Washington  <^>     <^>     ^>     ^o>     *^>     <^> 

(Ml.  Vernoti) 

\\  THERE  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 
*  *      When  gazing  on  the  Great; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes — one — the  first — the  last — the  best — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate. 
Bequeath  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  men  blush  there  was  but  one ! 

Lord  Byron. 


376  THE   SOUTH 

Mount  Vernon     <^>     ^x     <^>     <^»     ^>     <^>. 

Written  at  Mt.  Vernon,  August,  1786. 

"D  Y  broad  Potomac's  azure  tide, 

•^    Where  Vernon's  mount,  in  sylvan  pride, 

Displays  its  beauties  far, 
Great  Washington,  to  peaceful  shades, 
Where  no  unhallowed  wish  invades, 
Retired  from  fields  of  war. 

Angels  might  see,  with  joy,  the  sage, 
Who  taught  the  battle  where  to  rage, 

Or  quenched  its  spreading  flame, 
On  works  of  peace  employ  that  hand, 
Which  waved  the  blade  of  high  command, 

And  hewed  the  path  to  fame. 

Let  others  sing  his  deeds  in  arms, 

A  nation  saved,  and  conquest's  charms: 

Posterity  shall  hear, 

'Twas  mine,  returned  from  Europe's  courts, 
To  share  his  thoughts,  partake  his  sports, 

And  soothe  his  partial  ear. 

To  thee,  my  friend,  these  lays  belong: 
Thy  happy  seat  inspires  my  song, 

With  gay,  perennial  blooms, 
With  fruitage  fair,  and  cool  retreats, 
Whose  bowery  wilderness  of  sweets 

The  ambient  air  perfumes. 


MOUNT  VERNON  377 

Here  spring  its  earliest  buds  displays, 
Here  latest  on  the  leafless  sprays 

The  plumy  people  sing; 
The  vernal  shower,  the  ripening  year, 
The  autumnal  store,  the  winter  drear, 

For  thee  new  pleasures  bring. 


Here,  lapped  in  philosophic  ease, 
Within  thy  walks,  beneath  thy  trees, 

Amidst  thine  ample  farms, 
No  vulgar  converse  heroes  hold, 
But  past  or  future  scenes  unfold, 

Or  dwell  on  nature's  charms. 


What  wondrous  era  have  we  seen, 
Placed  on  this  isthmus,  half  between 

A  rude  and  polished  state ! 
We  saw  the  war  tempestuous  rise, 
In  arms  a  world,  in  blood  the  skies, 

In  doubt  an  empire's  fate. 


The  storm  is  calmed,  serened  the  heaven, 
And  mildly  o'er  the  climes  of  even 

Expands  the  imperial  day: 
"O  God,  the  source  of  light  supreme, 
Shed  on  our  dusky  morn  a  gleam, 

To  guide  our  doubtful  way ! 


THE  SOUTH 


"  Restrain,  dread  Power,  our  land  from  crimes  1 
What  seeks,  though  blest  beyond  all  times, 

So  querulous  an  age  ? 
What  means  to  freedom  such  disgust; 
Of  change,  of  anarchy  the  lust, 

The  fickleness  and  rage?" 

So  spake  his  country's  friend,  with  sighs, 
To  find  that  country  still  despise 

The  legacy  he  gave,  — 
And  half  he  feared  his  toils  were  vain, 
And  much  that  man  would  court  a  chain, 

And  live  through  vice  a  slave. 

A  transient  gloom  o'ercast  his  mind; 
Yet,  still  on  providence  reclined, 

The  patriot  fond  believed, 
That  power  benign  too  much  had  done, 
To  leave  an  empire's  task  begun, 

Imperfectly  achieved. 

Thus  buoyed  with  hope,  with  virtue  blest, 
Of  every  human  bliss  possessed, 

He  meets  the  happier  hours: 
His  skies  assume  a  lovelier  blue, 
His  prospects  brighter  rise  to  view, 

And  fairer  bloom  his  flowers. 

David  Humphreys. 


DISMAL  SWAMP  379 

The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  ^    ^    <^> 

(Dismal  Sivamf) 

They  tell  of  a  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon  the  death  of  a  girl 
he  loved,  and  who,  suddenly  disappearing  from  his  friends,  was  never 
afterwards  heard  of.  As  he  had  frequently  said,  in  his  ravings,  that  the 
girl  was  not  dead,  but  gone  to  the  Dismal  Swamp,  it  is  supposed  he  had 
wandered  into  that  dreary  wilderness,  and  had  died  of  hunger,  or  been 
lost  in  some  of  its  dreadful  morasses. 

HPHEY  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp 
-*•     For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true: 
And  she's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  firefly  lamp, 
She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

"And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear; 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress-tree, 
When  the  footstep  of  Death  is  near." 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds, — 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen,  where  the  serpent  feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before. 

And,  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay,  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew ! 


380  THE  SOUTH 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"  Oh !  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear?" 


He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  played, — 
"Welcome,"  he  said,  "my  dear-one's  light !" 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed,  for  many  a  night, 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid. 


Till  he  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 

Which  carried  him  off  from  shore; 
Far,  far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark, 
And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 


But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


CHARLESTOWN  381 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie  <^    <^y    ^>    <^>-    -^x 

(Charlestown) 

JOHN  BROWN  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his 

J      dying  day: 

"I  will  not  have,  to  shrive  my  soul,  a  priest  in 

Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have 

striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a 

prayer  for  me!" 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to 

die; 
And  lo !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child 

pressed  nigh.  .. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old 

harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and 

kissed  the  negro's  child ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell 

apart; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the 

loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the 

good  intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's 

aureole  bent ! 


382  THE   SOUTH 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil 
good! 

Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with 
human  blood ! 

Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought 
which  underlies; 

Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Chris- 
tian's sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern 
rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the 
negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free- winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded 
passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  .than  might,  and  jus- 
tice more  than  mail ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter 

snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares 

not  harm  the  dove; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide 

to  Love ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


HAMPTON  ROADS  383 

The  Cumberland    *o    <^>    <^>     *Q>    <^>    <^y 

(Hampton  Roads) 

A  T  arTchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
'*"*•     On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 


384  THE   SOUTH 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"Never!"  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 
"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! . 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


GLYNN  385 

GEORGIA 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn  l        <z>    <^>    <z>    <z> 

(~*  LOOMS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided 
V^    and  woven 

With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad- 
cloven 

Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 
Emerald  twilights, — 
Virginal  shy  lights, 
Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of 

vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green 

colonnades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach 

within 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day 

fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 
Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering 

arras  of  leaves, — 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the 

soul  that  grieves, 

1  From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D. 
Lanier;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


386  THE   SOUTH 

Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through 

the  wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of 

the  vine, 
While  the  riotous  noonday  sun  of  the  June-day 

long  did  shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast 

in  mine; 
But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is 

rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a- wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the 

West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle 

doth  seem 

Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the 

soul  of  the  oak, 

And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  weari- 
some sound  of  the  stroke 
Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is 

low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that 

I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass 

within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of 

the  marshes  of  Glynn 


GLYNN  387 

Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have 

wrought  me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was 

but  bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnam- 

able  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  width  of  the 

plain, — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am 

drawn, 

Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt 
of  the  dawn, 

For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest-dark: — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  bending  low — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  reverent 

hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the 

land!) 

Swinging  your  beauty  aside,    with  a  step  I 
stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 

By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of 
sea. 


388  THE   SOUTH 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the 

shimmering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the 

marsh  to  the  folds  of  the  land. 
Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward 

the  beach-lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and 

follows  the  firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 
Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again 

into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim 

gray  looping  of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of 

the  woods  stands  high? 
The  world  lies  east:  how  ample,  the  marsh  and 

the  sea  and  the  sky ! 

A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist- 
high,  broad  in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a 

light  or  a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 
Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal 

sea? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discus- 
sion of  sin, 

By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of 
the  marshes  of  Glynn. 


GLYNN  389 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing- 
withholding  and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  your- 
selves to  the  sea! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains 

and  the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who 

hath  mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a 

stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery 

sod, 

Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  favor  of  God: 
I  will  fly  in  the  favor  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the 

marsh  and  the  skies: 
By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the 

sod 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a  hold  on  the  favor  of  God. 
Oh,  like  to  the  favor  of  God,  for  the  largeness 

within, 
Is  the  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of 

Glynn. 
And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh:  lo,  out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast:  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood  of  the 

tide  must  be:  * 


39°  THE   SOUTH 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  chan- 
nels that  flow 
Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks 

and  the  high-lying  lanes, 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun ! 
The  creeks  overflow:  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of  the 

marsh-grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  nestward 

whir: 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still:  and  the  currents  cease  to 

run; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be  ! 

The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height: 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters 

of  sleep  ' 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 


CHATTAHOOCHEE   RIVER  391 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below 

when  the  tide  comes  in 

On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvelous 
marshes  of  Glynn. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


O' 


Song  of  the  Chattahoochee l  *z>    <z>    <^>    <^x 

(Cliattahoochee  River) 

\UT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 

1  From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D. 
Lanier;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


392  THE   SOUTH 

And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The    white    quartz    shone,    and    the    smooth 

brook-stone 

Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 


FLORIDA  393 

Avail:  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valley  of  Hall. 

Sidney  Lanier. 

FLORIDA 
Down  the  Bayou    *o    <o    <^.    "v>    ^>    <o 

'  I  "HE  cypress  swamp  around  me  wraps  its  spell, 
-*•      With  hushing  sounds  in  moss-hung  branches 

there, 

Like  congregations  rustling  down  to  prayer, 
While  Solitude,  like  some  unsounded  bell, 
Hangs  full  of  secrets  that  it  cannot  tell, 
And  leafy  litanies  on  the  humid  air 
Intone  themselves,  and  on  the  tree-trunks  bare 
The  scarlet  lichen  writes  her  rubrics  well.    . 
The  cypress-knees  take  on  them  marvelous  shapes 
Of  pygmy  nuns,  gnomes,  goblins,  witches,  fays, 
The  vigorous  vine  the  withered  gum-tree  drapes, 
Across  the  oozy  ground  the  rabbit  plays, 
The  moccasin  to  jungle  depths  escapes,  r 

And  through  the  gloom  the  wild  deer  shyly  gaze. 
Mary  Ashley  Townsend. 


394  THE  SOUTH 

At  Set  of  Sun        ^    <^>    <^    -^y    *o    <^> 

A    SCENT  of  guava-blossoms  and  the  smell 
*^;    Of  bruised  grass  beneath   the  tamarind- 
trees; 

The  hurried  humming  of  belated  bees 
With  pollen-laden  thighs;  far  birds  that  tell 
With  faint,  last  notes  of  night's  approaching  spell, 
While  smoke  of  supper-fires  the  low  sun  sees 
Creep  through  the  roofs  of  palm,  and  on  the 

breeze 

Floats  forth  the  message  of  the  evening  bell. 
Our  footsteps  pause,  we  look  toward  the  west, 
And  from  my  heart  throbs  out  one  fervent  prayer: 
O  love !    O  silence !  ever  to  be  thus, — 
A  silence  full  of  love  and  love  its  best, 
Till  in  our  evening  years  we  two  shall  share 
Together,  side  by  side,  life's  Angelus ! 

Mary  Ashley  Townsend. 

Tampa  Robins1      <^>    -v>     <^x    <^>    ^    ^> 

(Tampa) 

HPHE  robin  laughed  in  the  orange-tree: 
-*•      "Ho,  windy  North,  a  fig  for  thee: 
While  breasts  are  red  and  wings  are  bold 
And  green  trees  wave  us  globes  of  gold, 
Time's  scythe  shall  reap  but  bliss  for  me — 
Sunlight,  song,  and  the  orange- tree. 

1  From  Poems  oj  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D. 
Lanier;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


LOUISIANA  395 

Burn,  golden  globes  in  leafy  sky, 
My  orange-planets:  crimson  I 
Will  shine  and  shoot  among  the  spheres 
(Blithe  meteor  that  no  mortal  fears) 
And  thrid  the  heavenly  orange-tree 
With  orbits  bright  of  minstrelsy. 

If  that  I  hate  wild  winter's  spite — 
The  gibbet  trees,  the  world  in  white, 
The  sky  but  gray  wind  over  a  grave — 
Why  should  I  ache,  the  season's  slave  ? 

I'll  sing  from  the  top  of  the  orange- tree 

Gramercy,  winter's  tyranny. 

I'll  south  with  the  sun,  and  keep  my  clime; 
My  wing  is  king  of  the  summer-time; 
My  breast  to  the  sun  his  torch  shall  hold; 
And  I'll  call  down  through  the  green  and  gold 

Time,  take  thy  scythe,  reap  bliss  for  me, 

Bestir  thee'under  the  orange-tree. 

Sidney  Lanier. 

LOUISIANA 
In  Louisiana  *o     <^x    <^>    ^    <^>    <^x    <^> 

'"THE  long,  gray  moss  that  softly  swings 
-*-      In  solemn  grandeur  from  the  trees, 
Like  mournful  funeral  draperies, — 
A  brown-winged  bird  that  never  sings. 


396  THE   SOUTH 

A  shallow,  stagnant,  inland  sea, 

Where  rank  swamp  grasses  wave,  and  where 

A  deadliness  lurks  in  the  air, — 
A  sere  leaf  falling  silently. 

The  death-like  calm  on  every  hand, 
That  one  might  deem  it  sin  to  break, 
So  pure,  so  perfect, — these  things  make 

The  mournful  beauty  of  this  land. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine. 

From  Evangeline<^     <^>     <z>    <^>    <^     <z> 

(Bayou  Plaquemine) 

WARD  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wil- 
derness  somber  with  forests, 
Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent 

river; 
Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped 

on  its  borders. 
Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands, 

where  plumelike 
Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they 

swept  with  the  current, 
Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery 

sand-bars 
Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves 

of  their  margin, 
Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of 

pelicans  waded. 


BAYOU  PLAQUEMINE  397 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of 

the  river, 
Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant 

gardens, 
Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro-cabins 

and  dove-cots. 
They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns 

perpetual  summer, 
Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of 

orange  and  citron, 
Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the 

eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course;  and,  enter- 
ing the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 
Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious 

waters, 
Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every 

direction. 
Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous 

boughs  of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid-air 
Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of 

ancient  cathedrals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save 

by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning 

at  sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demo- 
niac laughter. 


398  THE  SOUTH 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and 
gleamed  on  the  water, 

Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sus- 
taining the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as 
through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 

***** 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose 
one  of  the  oarsmen, 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  perad- 
venture 

Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams, 
blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle. 

Wide  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors 
leafy  the  blast  rang, 

Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues  to 
the  forest. 

Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just 
stirred  to  the  music. 

Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  dis- 
tance, 

Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  rever- 
berant branches; 

But  not  a  voice  replied;  no  answer  came  from  the 
darkness; 

And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of 
pain  was  the  silence. 

Then  Evangeline  slept;  but  the  boatmen  rowed 
through  the  midnight, 


ATCHAFALAYA  LAKES  399 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian 
boat-songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian 
rivers, 

While  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysteri- 
ous sounds  of  the  desert, 

Far  off, — indistinct, — as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the 
forest, 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar 
of  the  grim  alligator. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


From  Evangeline<^>     <z>     <^>     *z>     *^x    <^ 

{Atchafalaya  Lakes) 

BEFORE  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atcha- 
falaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undu- 
lations 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in 
beauty,  the  lotus 

Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the 
boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  mag- 
nolia blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon;  and  numberless  sylvan 
islands, 


400  THE  SOUTH 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming 

hedges  of  roses, 
Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to 

slumber. 
Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were 

suspended. 
Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew 

by  the  margin, 
Safely  their  boat  was  moored;  and  scattered  about 

on  the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travel- 
lers slumbered. 
Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a 

cedar. 
Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower 

and  the  grapevine 
Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of 

Jacob, 
On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending, 

descending, 
Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from 

blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slum- 
bered beneath  it. 
Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an 

opening  heaven 
Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions 

celestial. 


ATCHAFALAYA  LAKES  401 

Nearer,  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless 
islands, 

Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er  the 
water, 

Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters 
and  trappers. 

Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the 
bison  and  beaver. 

At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance 
thoughtful  and  careworn. 

Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow, 
and  a  sadness 

Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly 
written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy 
and  restless, 

Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and 
of  sorrow. 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of 
the  island, 

But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen  of 
palmettos, 

So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  con- 
cealed in  the  willows, 

All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  un- 
seen, were  the  sleepers, 

Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slum- 
bering maiden. 


402  THE   SOUTH 

Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud 

on  the  prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had 

died  in  the  distance, 
As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and 

the  maiden 
Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "O  Father 

Felician ! 
Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel 

wanders. 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  supersti- 
tion? 
Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to 

my  spirit?" 

Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added, "  Alas  for  my  credu- 
lous fancy  ! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no 

meaning." 
But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled 

as  he  answered, — 
"Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle;  nor  are  they 

to  me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still;  and  the  word  that  floats 

on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the 

anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the 

world  calls  illusions. 


TEXAS  403 

Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee;  for  not  far  away  to  the 

southward, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St. 

Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given 

again  to  her  bridegroom, 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and 

his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests 

of  fruit-trees; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest 

of  heavens 
Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls 

of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden 

Louisiana." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


TEXAS 
From  Kit  Carson  s  Ride      <z>     ^>     <z>     <^y 

( The  Plains) 

"X  "X  TE  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain 

*  ^      levels, 

Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride; 
And  the  heavens  of  blue  and  the  harvest  of  brown 
And  beautiful  clover  were  welded  as  one, 
To  the  right  and  the  left,  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 


404  THE   SOUTH 

"  Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 

Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 

Of  red  Camanches  are  hot  on  the  track 

When  once  they  strike  it.    Let  the  sun  go  down 

Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 

As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 

Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.    Then  he  jerked  at  his 

steed 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly 

around, 
And  then  dropped,  as  if  shot,  with  his  ear  to  the 

ground; 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 
While  his  eyes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a 

shroud, 

His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 
And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a 

reed, — 

"  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed, 
And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must 

ride! 
For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 

And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire." 


TEXAS  405 

We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  sinched  them  on,  sinched  them 

over  again, 

And  again  drew  the  girth,  cast  aside  the  macheers, 
Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 
Cast  aside  the  catenas  red-spangled  with  gold, 
And   gold-mounted    Colt's,    the  companions  of 

years, 

Cast  the  silken  scrapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath, 
And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sprang  all  haste  to  the 

horse, — 

As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God, — without  word,  or  one  word  of  command. 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the 

hair 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his 

course; 

Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rush  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 
Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blew  hollow  and  hoarse. 

Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low  call 
Of  love-note  or  courage;  but  on  o'er  the  plain 
So  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 


406  THE   SOUTH 

With  the  "heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the 

rein, 
Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  nose  and  gray 

nose, 
Reaching  long,  breathing  loud,  as  a  creviced  wind 

blows : 
Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a 

prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the 

air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

Gray  nose  to  gray  nose,  and  each  steady  mus- 
tang 
Stretched  neck  and  stretched  nerve  till  the  arid 

earth  rang, 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and 

the  neck 
Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven 

deck. 
Twenty  miles ! . . .  thirty  miles ! .  .  .  a  dim  distant 

speck. . . 

Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight, 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right — 
But  Revels  was  gone;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast 
stooping 


TEXAS  407 

Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 
A  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 
Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching 

higher. 

And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 
The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 
Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 
And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 
Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 
While  his  keen  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm 

of  his  mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked 

through, 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

I  looked  to  my  left  then, — and  nose,  neck,  and 

shoulder 

Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back" to  my  thighs; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvelous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 


408  THE   SOUTH 

Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fall  as 

dead. 

Then  she  saw  sturdy  Pache  still  lorded  his  head, 
With  a  look  of  delight;  for  nor  courage  nor  bribe, 
Nor  naught  but  my  bride,  could  have  brought 

him  to  me. 

For  he  was  her  father's,  and  at  South  Santafee 
Had  once  won  a  whole  herd,  sweeping  everything 

down 
In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the 

crown. 

And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride, — 
My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 
And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe, — 
She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 
She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 
From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  North  Brazos 

side; 

And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 
As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 
The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 
I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 
Than  to  ride,  without  blood,  to  the  North  Brazos 

side, 
And  await  her, — and  wait  till  the  next  hollow 

moon 

Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 
And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 
Without  bloodshed  or  word.  And  now  as  she  fell 


TEXAS  409 

From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 
The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 
That  I  should  escape — a  love — a  desire — 
Yet  never  a  word,  not  one  look  of  appeal, 
Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand  or 

stay  heel 
One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  me  and  under, 
And  the  howling  of  beasts  and  a  sound  as  of  thun- 
der,— 
Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and 

over, 
As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  them,  and 

wove  her 
Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they 

died, — 

Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan, 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone . . . 
And  into  the  Brazos.  .  .1  rode  all  alone, — 
All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed, 
And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 
And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide 
Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream 

brimmed 

In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 
***** 

Joaguin  Miller. 


FROM    TENNESSEE    TO    THE 
NORTHWEST 


Along  the  buffalo  paths,  from  one  salt-lick  to  another,  a 
group  of  pioneers  took  a  vagrant  way  through  the  dense  cane- 
brakes.  Never  a  wheel  had  then  entered  the  deep  forests  of 
this  western  wilderness;  the  frontiersman  and  the  pack  horse 
were  comrades.  Dark,  gloomy,  with  long,  level  summit-lines, 
a  grim  outline  of  the  mountain  range,  since  known  as  the 
Cumberland,  stretched  from  northeast  to  southwest,  seeming 
as  they  approached  to  interpose  an  insurmountable  barrier  to 
further  progress,  until  suddenly,  as  in  the  miracle  of  a  dream, 
the  craggy  wooded  heights  showed  a  gap,  cloven  to  the  heart 
of  the  steeps,  opening  out  their  path  as  through  some  splendid 
gateway,  and  promising  deliverance,  a  new  life  and  a  new  and 
beautiful  land.  For  beyond  the  darkling  cliffs  on  either  hand 
an  illuminated  vista  stretched  in  every  lengthening  perspective, 
with  softly  nestling  sheltered  valleys,  and  parallel  lines  of  dis- 
tant azure  mountains,  and  many  a  mile  of  level  woodland  high 
on  an  elevated  plateau,  all  bedight  in  the  lingering  flare  of  the 
yellow,  and  deep  red,  and  sere  brown  of  late  autumn,  and  all 
suffused  with  an  opaline  haze  and  the  rich,  sweet  languors  of 
sunset-tide  on  an  Indian-summer  day. 

C.  E.  Craddock. 


TENNESSEE 
October  in  Tennessee    <o    *v>    *o>    <^>    ^> 

R,  far  away,  beyond  a  hazy  height, 

The  turquoise  skies  are  hung  in  dreamy 

sleep; 

Below,  the  fields  of  cotton,  fleecy-white, 
Are  spreading  like  a  mighty  flock  of  sheep. 

Now,  like  Aladdin  of  the  days  of  old, 
October  robes  the  weeds  in  purple  gowns; 

He  sprinkles  all  the  sterile  fields  with  gold, 
And  all  the  rustic  trees  wear  royal  crowns. 

The  straggling  fences  all  are  interlaced 

With  pink  and  purple  morning-glory  blooms; 

The  starry  asters  glorify  the  waste, 
While  grasses  stand  on  guard  with  pikes  and 
plumes. 

Yet  still  amid  the  splendor  of  decay 

The  chill  winds  call  for  blossoms  that  are  dead, 
The  cricket  chirps  for  sunshine  passed  away, — 

The  lovely  summer  songsters  that  have  fled. 
413 


414  TENNESSEE 

And  lonesome  in  a  haunt  of  withered  vines, 
Amid  the  flutter  of  her  withered  leaves, 

Pale  Summer  for  her  perished  kingdom  pines, 
And  all  the  glories  of  her  golden  sheaves. 

In  vain  October  wooes  her  to  remain 

Within  the  palace  of  his  scarlet  bowers, — 

Entreats  her  to  forget  her  heart-break  pain, 
And  weep  no  more  above  her  faded  flowers. 

At  last  November,  like  a  conqueror,  comes 
To  storm  the  golden  city  of  his  foe; 

We  hear  his  rude  winds  like  the  roll  of  drums, 
Bringing  their  desolation  and  their  woe. 

The  sunset,  like  a  vast  vermilion  flood, 
Splashes  its  giant  glowing  waves  on  high, 

The  forest  flames  with  blazes  red  as  blood, — 
A  conflagration  sweeping  to  the  sky. 

Then  all  the  treasures  of  that  brilliant  state 
Are  gathered  in  a  mighty  funeral  pyre; 

October,  like  a  King  resigned  to  fate, 
Dies  hi  his  forests  with  their  sunset  fire. 

Walter  M  alone. 


KENTUCKY  415 


KENTUCKY 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home      ^x    <^x    ^>    ^ 

'  I  "HE  sun  shines  bright  in  our  old  Kentucky 

home; 

'Tis  summer,  the  darkeys  are  gay; 
The  corn  top's  ripe  and  the  meadow's  in  the 

bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day; 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor, 

All  merry,  all  happy,  all  bright; 
By'm  by  hard  times  comes  a  knockin'  at  the 

door,  — 
Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night  ! 

CHORUS. 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady;  oh,  weep  no  more  to-day! 
We  '11  sing  one  song  for  my  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  our  old  Kentucky  home  far  away. 

They  hunt  no  more  for  the  'possum  and  the  coon, 
On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore; 

They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon, 
On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door; 

The  day  goes  by,  like  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart, 
With  sorrow  where  all  was  delight; 


41 6  INDIANA 

The  time  has  come,  when  the  darkeys  have  to  part, 
Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  etc. 

The  head  must  bow,  and  the  back  will  have  to 

bend, 

Wherever  the  darkey  may  go; 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  troubles  all  will  end, 

In  the  field  where  the  sugar-cane  grow; 
A  few  more  days  to  tote  the  weary  load, 

No  matter  it  will  never  be  light; 
A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road, 
Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  etc. 

Stephen  C.  Foster. 

INDIANA 
Indiana    <^y-^>^<^<^><^><^x<^* 

LAND  of  Rivers !    Moving  down 
Slow  through  forest,  farm,  and  town, 
With  his  tributary  streams, 
Beautiful  in  glooms  and  gleams, 

Flows  the  Wabash  !    Yonder,  see, 
Sinking  fathoms  under  ground, 
The  Lost  River,  lost  and  found, 
From  its  grave  beneath  the  plain 
Springing  into  life  again. 

Land  of  Rivers !    Hail  to  thee ! 


INDIANA  417 

Land  of  Forests !    Wide  thy  vast 
Centennial  oaks  their  shadows  cast, 
In  whose  gnarled  and  hollow  trunks 
Hive  the  bees,  like  cloistered  monks, 

Singing  their  low  litany. 
Through  the  openings  far  and  near 
Stalks,  as  through  a  park,  the  deer, 
And  in  autumn  fiery  red 
Glows  the  foliage  overhead. 

Land  of  Forests !    Hail  to  thee ! 


Land  of  Meadows !  where  the  flowers 
On  their  dials  count  the  hours, 
And  the  lowland  landscape  breaks 
Into  little  sylvan  lakes, 

Garlanded  with  shrub  and  tree; 
Where  the  maize  for  miles  and  miles 
Lifts  its  green,  cathedral  aisles, 
And  the  endless  fields  of  wheat 
Ripen  in  the  harvest  heat. 

Land  of  Meadows !    Hail  to  thee ! 


Land  of  Caverns !    Who  knows  not 
Thy  wondrous  Cave  of  Wyandot? 
Leagues  of  chambers  glimmering  far, 
With  their  fretted  roofs  of  spar. 

What  compared  with  this,  are  ye, 


418  INDIANA 

Grottos  of  the  Illyrian  land? 
Nature  on  a  scale  more  grand 
Laid  the  timbers  of  these  floors, 
Arched  these  halls  and  corridors, 
Land  of  Caverns !    Hail  to  thee  ! 

Anonymous. 


The  Wabash  <^>    ^    ^    *o>    ^y    <^,    <^y 

""THERE  is  a  river  singing  in  between 
•*•      Bright  fringes  of  papaw  and  sycamore, — 
That  stir  to  fragrant  winds  on  either  shore, — 
Where  tall  blue  herons  stretch  lithe  necks,  and 

lean 

Over  clear  currents  flowing  cool  and  thin 
Through    the    clean   furrows    of   the   pebbly 

floor. 

My  own  glad  river !  though  unclassic,  still 
Haunted  of  merry  gods,  whose  pipings  fill 
With  music  all  thy  golden  willow  brakes ! 
Above  thee  Halcyon  lifts  his  regal  crest; 
The  tulip- tree  flings  thee  its  flower-flakes; 
The  tall  flag  over  thee  its  lances  shakes: 
With  every  charm  of  beauty  thou  art  blest, 
O  happiest  river  of  the  happy  West ! 

Maurice  Thompson. 


TAILHOLT  419 

The  Little  Town  o'  Tailholt l       ^>     *z>    <z> 

\7X)U  kin  boast  about  yer  cities,  and  their  stiddy 
*-      growth  and  size, 
And  brag  about  yer  county-seats,  and  business 

enterprise, 

And  railroads,  and  factories,  and  all  sich  foolery — 
But  the  little  Town  o'  Tailholt  is  big  enough  fer 

me! 

You  can  harp  about  yer  churches,  with   their 

steeples  in  the  clouds, 
And  gas  about  yer  graded  streets,  and  blow  about 

yer  crowds; 
You  kin  talk  about  yer  theatres,  and  all  you've 

got  to  see — 
But  the  little  Town  o'  Tailholt  is  show  enough  fer 

me! 

They  haint  no  style  in  our  town — hit's  little-like 
and  small — 

They  haint  no  churches,  nuther, — '  jes  the  meetin'- 
house  is  all; 

They's  no  sidewalks,  to  speak  of — but  the  high- 
way's allus  free, 

And  the  little  Town  o'  Tailholt  is  wide  enough  fer 
me! 

1  From  Ajte-whi'es,  copyright,  1898.     Used  by  special  permission  of 
the  publishers  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


420  ILLINOIS 

Some  finds  its  discommodin'-like,  I'm  willin'  to 

admit, 
To  hev  but  one  postoffice,  and  a  womern  keepin' 

hit, 
And  the  drugstore,  and  shoeshop,  and  grocery, 

all  three — 
But  the  little  Town  o'  Tailholt  is  handy  'nough 

fer  me! 

You  kin  smile,  and  turn  yer  nose  up,  and  joke  and 

hev  yer  fun, 
And  laugh  and  holler  "Tail-holts  is  better  holts 

'n  none!" 
Ef  the  city  suits  you  better,  w'y,  hits  where  you'd 

orto'  be, 
But  the  little  Town  o'  Tailholt's  good  enough  fer 

me!     * 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

ILLINOIS 
Illinois  ^><^<o<^<^><^>x^y^> 

T^AMILIAR  to  the  childish  mind  were  tales 
•*-       Of  rock-girt  isles  amid  a  desert  sea, 
Where  unexpected  stretch  the  flowery  vales 
To  soothe  the  shipwrecked  sailor's  misery. 
Fainting,  he  lay  upon  a  sandy  shore, 
And  fancied  that  all  hope  of  life  was  o'er; 
But  let  him  patient  climb  the  frowning  wall, 


ILLINOIS  421 

Within,  the  orange  glows  beneath  the  palm-tree 

tall, 
And  all  that  Eden  boasted  waits  his  call. 

Almost  these  tales  seem  realized  to-day, 
When  the  long  dulness  of  the  sultry  way, 
Where  independent  settlers'  careless  cheer 
Made  us  indeed  feel  we  were  strangers  here, 
Is  cheered  by  sudden  sight  of  this  fair  spot, 
On  which  improvement  yet  has  made  no  blot, 
But  Nature  all  astonished  stands,  to  find 
Her  plan  protected  by  the  human  mind. 

Blest  be  the  kindly  genius  of  the  scene: 
The  river,  bending  in  unbroken  grace; 

The  stately  thickets,  with  their  pathways  green; 
Fair  lonely  trees,  each  in  its  fittest  place. 

Those  thickets  haunted  by  the  deer  and  fawn ; 

Those  cloudlike  flights  of  birds  across  the  lawn; 

The  gentlest  breezes  here  delight  to  blow, 

And  sun  and  shower  and  star  are  emulous  to  deck 
the  show. 

Wondering,  as  Crusoe,  we  survey  the  land; 
Happier  than  Crusoe  we,  a  friendly  band: 

Blest  be  the  hand  that  reared   this  friendly 

home, 

The  heart  and  mind  of  him  to  whom  we  owe 
Hours  of  pure  peace  such  as  few  mortals  know; 

May  he  find  such,  should  he  be  led  to  roam, — 


422  ILLINOIS 

Be  tended  by  such  ministering  sprites, — 

Enjoy   such  gayly  childish    days,   such   hopeful 

nights. 

And  yet,  amid  the  goods  to  mortals  given, 
To  give  those  goods  again  is  most  like  Heaven. 
Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli. 
Chicago   ^>    <o    o    ^>     <^x    <o    -<^>    •<o 

A/TOTHER,    Mother    and    Queen,     beautiful, 
•*•"**'     strong,  and  alert, 
Rich  in  motherhood's  riches,  in  diligent  children 

and  wise, 
Robed  as  monarchs  are  robed,  with  azure  and 

sable  engirt — 

The  wonders  of  water  about  thee,  and  swirling 
of  toil-laden  skies, 

Beautiful  art  thou  with  labor,  that  children  of 

men  may  be  blest; 
Lovely  as  mothers  are  lovely  in  youth  with  a  child 

at  the  breast; 
Comely  with  duties  fulfilled,  more  glorious  duties 

beyond; 
Mystic  and  wistful  with  dreams,  noble  ideals  and 

fond! 

Princely  thy  rule  and  secure  over  a  broadening 

realm, 

Workshop  and  coffer  and  mart,  palace  and  play- 
ground and  street, 


CHICAGO  423 

Circled  by  ocean-like  prairies  that  the  suns  of 

summer  o'erwhelm 

League  upon  league  with  harvests  waving  and 
golden  and  sweet: 

Strong  art  thou  in  thy  children,  welcomed  from 
every  land, 

Led  by  the  seekers  of  old,  those  who  gave  hard- 
ship their  hand, 

Myriads  strong  in  their  manhood,  eager  to  found 
them  a  state 

Void  of  dullards  and  drones,  liberty-loving,  elate! 

Musing  thou  sitt'st  by  thy  sea,  fairest  of  all  in  the 

world, 
Amethyst,    beryl,    and   gleam,  bordered   with 

ivory  foam, 
Led  by  thy  wisdom  afar,  where  the  Father  of 

Waters  is  whirled 

Down    to    the   sapphirine   Gulf — such   is   thy 
throne  and  thy  home! 

Wonder  we    then   that,   alert,    thou   lovest   the 

beauty  of  earth, 
Miracled  color  and  music,  art  in  its  making  and 

mirth, 
Sendest  thy  children  abroad  who  have  taken  them 

beauty  as  bride, 
Lovest  the  bounty  of  books,  and  Learning  and 

Science  in  pride? 


424  ILLINOIS 

O  great  city  of  visions,  waging  the  war  of  the  free, 
Beautiful,  strong,  and  alert,  a  goddess  in  pur- 
pose and  mien 
Guarding  America's  altar,  to  battle  the  wrongs 

that  yet  be 

Here  in   thy  service  we  kneel,  Mother,  dear 
Mother  and  Queen! 

Wallace  Rice. 


From  Lincoln's  Grave  <^>     <z>    <^>    <^>    <^> 

(Springfield) 

Read  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  University 

A/TAY  one  who  fought  in  honor  for  the  South 
•*•*•*     Uncovered   stand  and  sing  by  Lincoln's 

grave? 

Why,  if  I  shrunk  not  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Nor  swerved  one  inch  for  any  battle-wave, 
Should  I  now  tremble  in  this  quiet  close, 
Hearing  the  prairie  wind  go  lightly  by 
From  billowy  plains  of  grass  and  miles  of  corn, 

While  out  of  deep  repose 
The  great  sweet  spirit  lifts  itself  on  high 
And  broods  above  our  land  this  summer  morn  ? 
***** 

Meseems  I  feel  his  presence.    Is  he  dead  ? 
Death  is  a  word.    He  lives  and  grander  grows. 
At  Gettysburg  he  bows  his  bleeding  head; 
He  spreads  his  arms  where  Chickamauga  flows, 


SPRINGFIELD  425 

As  if  to  clasp  old  soldiers  to  his  breast, 

Of  South  or  North  no  matter  which  they  be, 

Not  thinking  of  what  uniform  they  wore, 

His  heart  a  palimpsest, 
Record  on  record  of  humanity, 
Where  love  is  first  and  last  forevermore. 
***** 

He  was  the  Southern  mother  leaning  forth, 
At  dead  of  night  to  hear  the  cannon  roar, 
Beseeching  God  to  turn  the  cruel  North 
And  break  it  that  her  son  might  come  once  more; 
He  was  New  England's  maiden  pale  and  pure, 
Whose  gallant  lover  fell  on  Shiloh's  plain; 
He  was  the  mangled  body  of  the  dead; 

He  writhing  did  endure 

Wounds  and  disfigurement  and  racking  pain, 
Gangrene  and  amputation,  all  things  dread. 

He  was  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 

The  thrall,  the  master,  all  of  us  in  one; 

There  was  no  section  that  he  held  the  best; 

His  love  shone  as  impartial  as  the  sun; 

And  so  revenge  appealed  to  him  in  vain, 

He  smiled  at  it,  as  at  a  thing  forlorn, 

And  gently  put  it  from  him,  rose  and  stood 

A  moment's  space  in  pain, 
Remembering  the  prairies  and  the  corn 
And  the  glad  voices  of  the  field  and  wood. 


426  ILLINOIS 

And  then  when  Peace  set  wing  upon  the  wind 
And  northward  flying  fanned  the  clouds  away, 
He  passed  as  martyrs  pass.    Ah,  who  shall  find 
The  chord  to  sound  the  pathos  of  that  day! 
Mid-April  blowing  sweet  across  the  land, 
New  bloom  of  freedom  opening  to  the  world, 
Loud  paeans  of  the  homeward-looking  host, 

The  salutations  grand 

From  grimy  guns,  the  tattered  flags  unfurled; 
And  he  must  sleep  to  all  the  glory  lost! 


Sleep!  loss!    But  there  is  neither  sleep  nor  loss, 

And  all  the  glory  mantles  him  about; 

Above  his  breast  the  precious  banners  cross, 

Does  he  not  hear  his  armies  tramp  and  shout  ? 

Oh,  every  kiss  of  mother,  wife  or  maid 

Dashed  on  the  grizzly  lip  of  veteran, 

Conies  forthright  to  that  calm  and  quiet  mouth, 

And  will  not  be  delayed, 
And  every  slave,  no  longer  slave  but  man, 
Sends  up  a  blessing  from  the  broken  South. 


He  is  not  dead,  France  knows  he  is  not  dead; 
He  stirs  strong  hearts  in  Spain  and  Germany, 
In  far  Siberian  mines  his  words  are  said, 
He  tells  the  English  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
He  calls  poor  serfs  about  him  in  the  night, 


THE  SANGAMON  RIVER  427 

And  whispers  of  a  power  that  laughs  at  kings, 
And  of  a  force  that  breaks  the  strongest  chain; 

Old  tyranny  feels  his  might 
Tearing  away  its  deepest  fastenings, 
And  jeweled  sceptres  threaten  him  in  vain. 

Years  pass  away,  but  freedom  does  not  pass, 
Thrones  crumble,  but  man's  birthright  crumbles 

not, 

And,  like  the  wind  across  the  prairie  grass, 
A  whole  world's  aspirations  fan  this  spot 
With  ceaseless  panting  after  liberty, 
One  breath  of  which  would  make  dark  Russia  fair, 
And  blow  sweet  summer  through  the  exile's  cave, 

And  set  the  exile  free; 
For  which  I  pray,  here  in  the  open  air 
Of  Freedom's  morning-tide,  by  Lincoln's  grave. 

Maurice  Thompson. 

The  Painted  Cup1  <^>    ^>    ^>    ^>    <^>    <^> 

( The  Sangamon  River) 

fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.    Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  painted  cup. 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission 
of  D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


428  ILLINOIS 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 
That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 
To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 
On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel  bowers, 
And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.     Call  not  up, 
Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude, 
The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world; 
But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 
Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming-birds 
To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless  lawns 
The  morning  sun  looks  hot.    Or  let  the  wind 
O'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 
A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry  plant, 
To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  slight  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.    Well, — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers, 
Lingering  amid  the  bloomy  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshipers  are  gone, 
Slender  and  small,  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine, — let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass; 
And  touching,  with  his  cherry  lips,  the  edge 
Of  these  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew 
William  Cidlen  Bryant. 


T 


THE   KANKAKEE  RIVER  429 

"  Mark "  <^>    -^>    <^>    ^>    <o    <^x    <^     <^> 

(  The  Kankakee  River) 

"HE  heavy  mists  have  crept  away, 

Heavily  swims  the  sun, 
And  dim  in  mystic  cloudlands  gray 

The  stars  fade  one  by  one; 
Out  of  the  dusk  enveloping 

Come  marsh  and  sky  and  tree, 
Where  erst  has  rested  night's  dark  ring 
Over  the  Kankakee. 

"Mark  right!"    Afar  and  faint  outlined 

A  flock  of  mallards  fly, 
We  crouch  within  the  reedy  blind 

Instantly  at  the  cry. 

"Mark  left!"    We  peer  through  wild  rice- 
blades, 

And  distant  shadows  see, 
A  wedge-shaped  phalanx  from  the  shades 

Of  far-off  Kankakee. 

" Mark  overhead !"    A  canvas-back! 

"Mark!  mark!"    A  bunch  of  teal ! 
And  swiftly  on  each  flying  track 

Follows  the  shotgun's  peal; 
Thus  rings  that  call,  till  twilight's  tide 

Rolls  in  like  some  gray  sea, 
And  whippoorwills  complain  beside 

The  lonely  Kankakee. 

Ernest  McGaffey, 


430  ILLINOIS 


O 


On  the  Bluff  <^    <ix    <^    <^>    <^y    <^> 

( The  Mississippi  River) 

GRANDLY  flowing  river  I 
O  silver-gliding  river ! 
Thy  springing  willows  shiver 

In  the  sunset  as  of  old ; 
They  shiver  in  the  silence 
Of  the  willow-whitened  islands, 
While  the  sun-bars  and  the  sand-bars 
Fill  air  and  wave  with  gold. 

O  gay,  oblivious  river ! 
O  sunset-kindled  river ! 
Do  you  remember  ever 

The  eyes  and  skies  so  blue 
On  a  summer  day  that  shone  here, 
When  we  were  all  alone  here, 
And  the  blue  eyes  were  too  wise 
To  speak  the  love  they  knew? 

O  stern  impassive  river ! 
O  still  unanswering  river ! 
The  shivering  willows  quiver 

As  the  night-winds  moan  and  rave. 
From  the  past  a  voice  is  calling, 
From  heaven  a  star  is  falling, 
And  dew  swells  in  the  bluebells 

Above  her  hillside  grave. 

John  Hay. 


THE   PRAIRIE  431 

The  Prairie     *^>    <^>    ^>    <o    <^>    ^    *c> 

HPHE  skies  are  blue  above  my  head, 

•*-      The  prairie  green  below, 
And  flickering  o'er  the  tufted  grass 

The  shifting  shadows  go, 
Vague-sailing,  where  the  feathery  clouds 

Fleck  white  the  tranquil  skies, 
Black  javelins  darting  where  aloft 

The  whirring  pheasant  flies. 

A  glimmering  plain  in  drowsy  trance 

The  dim  horizon  bounds, 
Where  all  the  air  is  resonant 

With  sleepy  summer  sounds, — 
The  life  that  sings  among  the  flowers, 

The  lisping  of  the  breeze, 
The  hot  cicala's  sultry  cry, 

The  murmurous  dream  of  bees. 


The  butterfly — a  flying  flower — 

Wheels  swift  in  flashing  rings, 
And  flutters  round  his  quiet  kin, 

With  brave  flame-mottled  wings. 
The  wild  pinks  burst  in  crimson  fire, 

The  phlox'  bright  clusters  shine, 
And  prairie-cups  are  swinging  free 

To  spill  their  airy  wine. 


432  ILLINOIS 

And  lavishly  beneath  the  sun, 

In  liberal  splendor  rolled, 
The  fennel  fills  the  dipping  plain 

With  floods  of  flowery  gold; 
And  widely  weaves  the  iron-weed 

A  woof  of  purple  dyes 
Where  Autumn's  royal  feet  may  tread 

When  bankrupt  Summer  flies. 


In  verdurous  tumult  far  away 

The  prairie-billows  gleam, 
Upon  their  crests  in  blessing  rests 

The  noontide's  gracious  beam. 
Low  quivering  vapors  steaming  dim 

The  level  splendors  break 
Where  languid  lilies  deck  the  rim 

Of  some  land-circled  lake. 


Far  in  the  east  like  low-hung  clouds 

The  waving  woodlands  lie; 
Far  in  the  west  the  glowing  plain 

Melts  warmly  in  the  sky. 
No  accent  wounds  the  reverent  air. 

No  footprint  dints  the  sod, — 
Lone  in  the  light  the  prairie  lies, 

Wrapt  in  a  dream  of  God. 

John  Hay. 


RACINE  433 

WISCONSIN 

From  The  Racine  College  Memorial  Ode    <^> 

(Racine) 

"D  ACINE:  Unto  her  feet  from  the  far  North 

**•    A  living  amethystine  sea  comes  forth, 

Sleeping  to-day  in  splendor,  thundering 

To-morrow  'gainst  the  bluffs,  a  lustful  thing 

Bent  on  destruction;  yet  with  outspread  wing 

Ships  pass,  a  mighty  navy  laden  deep 

Upon  the  waves,  awakened  or  asleep. 

Embowering  all  its  resonant  shores  are  set 

Huge  forests  where  are  met 

In  tints  of  malachite  and  chrysoprase 

A  myriad  tossing,  plumy  sprays — 

Of  tremulous  poplar,  and  the  choiring  pine, 

The  whispering  alder,  black-stoled  oak, 

The  stately  walnut  in  her  emerald  cloak, 

And  fragrant  birch,  as  pale  and  fine 

As  studious  youth.     To  swell  this  azure  sea 

The  river  runs,  a  city  fair 

Beside  the  pleasant  waters  meeting  there, 

As  cunning  workmen  set  a  gem 

To  mark  the  joining  of  a  diadem. 

And  here  the  vast-horizoned  prairies  come, 

Full,  multitudinous,  with  the  busy  hum 

Of  insects,  and  the  mating  songs  of  birds, 

And  flashes  of  bright  blossoms,  lowing  herds, 

And  clustering  farmsteads  filled  with  happy 

folk-    •    •    •  Wallace  Rice. 


434  WISCONSIN 

The  Four  Lakes  of  Madison      <^>      <^>      - 

(Madison) 

~CX)UR  limpid  lakes, — four  Naiades 
•*•       Or  sylvan  deities  are  these, 

In  flowing  robes  of  azure  dressed; 
Four  lovely  handmaids  that  uphold 
Their  shining  mirrors,  rimmed  with  gold, 

To  the  fair  city  in  the  West. 

By  day  the  coursers  of  the  Sun 
Drink  of  these  waters  as  they  run 

Their  swift,  diurnal  round  on  high; 
By  night  the  constellations  glow 
Far  down  the  hollow  deeps  below, 

And  glimmer  in  another  sky. 

Fair  lakes,  serene  and  full  of  light, 
Fair  town,  arrayed  in  robes  of  white, 

How  visionary  ye  appear  ! 
All  like  a  floating  landscape  seems 
In  cloud-land  or  the  land  of  dreams, 

Bathed  in  a  golden  atmosphere! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


IN  MICHIGAN  435 

MICHIGAN 


In  Michigan 


CLOW-YIELDING  Nymphs 

*-?    Evade  unpandered  Satyrs  here, 

And  sands  unconquered  laugh  at  man's 

invention  : 

Bright  clouds  drive  darker  shadows, 
And  the  bay-breeze  bears  heavy  odors  — 
Odor-offerings  oi  ragged  pine 
And  spruce. 

The  white  birch  single  on  the  hillside, 
The  hemlocks  and  I 
Are  friends 
In  Michigan. 

Nature's  fingers 

Seem  to  play  upon  my  strings 

In  minor  harmonies  up  here  — 

Where  shells  of  convents  shelter 

Echoes  only, 

And  the  last  Indian  has  laid 

His  flints  and  legends 

On  the  grave-mound  of  the  older  time 

In  Michigan. 

Ivan  Swift. 


436  '    LAKE  SUPERIOR 


LAKE  SUPERIOR 
From  Hiawatha     <z>    ^>    *o>    *o    ^>    -x> 

(  The  Grand  Sable) 

'"PHEN  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
•*-      He  the  idle  Yenadizze, 
He  the  merry  mischief-maker, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Rose  among  the  guests  assembled. 

Skilled  was  he  in  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoes, 
In  the  play  of  quoits  and  ball-play; 
Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 
In  all  games  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Kuntassoo,  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 

Though  the  warriors  called  him  Faint-Heart, 
Called  him  coward,  Shaugodaya, 
Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 
Little  heeded  he  their  jesting, 
Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 
For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum; 
He  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings, 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine, 


THE   GRAND   SABLE,   LAKE   SUPERIOR      437 

And  in  moccasins  of  buck-skin, 

Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 

On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan's  down, 

On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 

In  one  hand  a  fan  of  feathers, 

And  a  pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion, 
Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses, 
Smooth,  and  parted  like  a  woman's, 
Shining  bright  with  oil,  and  plaited, 
Hung  with  braids  of  scented  grasses, 
As  among  the  guests  assembled, 
To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing, 
To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 
Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  began  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a  solemn  measure, 
Very  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 
In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine, 
Treading  softly  like  a  panther, 
Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles, 
Leaping  o'er  the  guests  assembled, 
Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 
Till  the  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  in  eddies  round  about  him. 


438  LAKE   SUPERIOR 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  lake,  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 
Stamped  upon  the  sand,  and  tossed  it 
Wildly  in  the  air  around  him; 
Till  the  winds  became  a  whirlwind, 
Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o'er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  Sand  Dunes, 
Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


From  Hiawatha     *z>    <^>    <z>    <^    <^>    <^ 

(  The  Pictured  Rocks,  Lake  Superior) 

\\  riTH  his  right  hand  Hiawatha 

*  •       Smote  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 
Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters, 
Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 
But  in  vain;  for  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once  again  in  human  figure, 
Full  in  sight  ran  on  before  him, 
Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind, 
On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Westward  by  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Came  unto  the  rocky  headlands, 
To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 


THE  PICTURED  ROCKS,  LAKE  SUPERIOR    439 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 
Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways, 
Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 
Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 
In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary, 
Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  his  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 
Found  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 
Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 
"Open!  I  am  Hiawatha!" 
But  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer 
From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 
From  the  gloomy  rock  abysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 
Called  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee; 
And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea-Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder, 
Saw  the  red  eyes  of  the  lightning, 
Was  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 


440  LAKE   SUPERIOR 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 
With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorways, 
Smote  the  jutting  crags  of  sandstone, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 
Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 
Saying,  "Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ?  " 
And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rocky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Hiawatha's  Departure  <^>    <^    o    -v>    < 

(Lake  Superior) 

the  shore  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
In  the  pleasant  summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 

All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness, 
All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 
And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  through  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo, 
Passed  the  bees,  the  honey-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 


LAKE   SUPERIOR  441 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him; 
From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon, 
Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine; 
On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 
Every  tree- top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water. 

From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 
As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 
As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 
With  a  look  of  exultation, 
As  of  one  who  in  a  vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 
Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted, 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it, 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water, 
Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  flying, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 


442  LAKE   SUPERIOR 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver  ? 
Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada  ? 
Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah  ? 
Or  the  white  goose,  Wah-be-wawa, 
With  the  water  dripping,  flashing, 
From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers  ? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron, 
O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning 
But  a  birch  canoe  with  paddles, 
Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 
Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine; 
And  within  it  came  a  people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 
From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning, 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face, 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha 
With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 
Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 
Waited,  full  of  exultation, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles, 
Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 
Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 


LAKE  SUPERIOR  443 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise: 
"Beautiful  is  the  sun,  0  strangers, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 
All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you; 
You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 
For  the  heart's  right  hand  we  give  you. 

"Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly, 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 
As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us ! 
Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil, 
Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars; 
For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

"Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavor, 
Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 
As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !" 

And  the  Black-Robe  chief  made  answer, 
Stammered  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar: 

"Peace  be  with  you,  Hiawatha, 
Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people, 
Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary!" 


444  LAKE  SUPERIOR 

Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening's  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forests, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow; 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 
Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 
Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 
Did  not  wake  the  guests,  that  slumbered: 

"I  am  going,  O  Nokomis, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest  wind,  Keewaydin. 
But  these  guests  I  leave  behind  me, 
In  your  watch  and  ward  I  leave  them; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them, 
See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 
Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 
Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 
In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha!" 

Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise: 


LAKE  SUPERIOR  445 

"I  am  going,  O  my  people, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey; 
Many  moons  and  many  winters 
Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished, 
Ere  I  come  again  to  see  you. 
But  my  guests  I  leave  behind  me; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you, 
For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning!" 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 
Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water; 
Whispered  to  it,  "Westward!  westward!" 
And  with  speed  it  darted  forward. 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water, 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 


446  LAKE   SUPERIOR 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 
Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 
.  And  they  said,  "Farewell  forever!" 
Said,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely, 
Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  darkness, 
Sighed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles, 
Sobbed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 
Screamed,  "Farewell,  0  Hiawatha!" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
.     In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest  wind  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE   MINNESOTA  WATER-SHED         447 


MINNESOTA 
The  Two  Streams  <^>    *^>    ^    <^>    <o    <^> 

(  The  Minnesota  Water-shed) 

"DEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
-^    That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending  as  they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides! 


Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 


The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 


So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each-widening  torrent  bends, — 


448  MINNESOTA 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee, — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


T 


From  Hiawatha     <^>    <z>    <z*    <^>    <^ 

(  The  Falls  of  Minnehaha) 

""HIS  was  Hiawatha's  wooing ! 

Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha!" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying: 
"Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us! 


THE   FALLS  OF  MINNEHAHA  449 

Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger  !•" 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE   WEST 

Room!  Room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and  be  free, 
And  to  grow  .to  be  a  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  with  his  mane 
To  the  wind,  without  pathway  or  route  or  a  rein. 
Room!  Room  to  be  free  where  the  white-bordered  sea 
Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he; 
And  to  east  and  to  west,  to  the  north  and  the  sun, 
Blue  skies  and  brown  grasses  are  welded  as  one, 
And  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouring  on  like  the  tide  of  a  storm-driven  main, 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers  rest;  and  unquestioned  you  come  or  you  go. 
My  plains  of  America!  Seas  of  wild  lands! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam, 
That  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  of  home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


451 


From  Evangeline  <z>    <^>    ^>    <^>    <^x    <^> 

( The  Far  West) 

"C*AR  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where 

-*-       the  mountains 

Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and  lumi- 
nous summits. 

Down  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the 
gorge,  like  a  gateway, 

Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emi- 
grant's wagon, 

Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway  and 
Owyhee. 

Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind- 
river  Mountains, 

Through  the  Sweet- water  Valley  precipitate  leaps 
the  Nebraska; 

And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout  and  the 
Spanish  sierras, 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the 
wind  of  the  desert, 

Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound,  de- 
scend to  the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and 
solemn  vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  won- 
drous, beautiful  prairies, 
453 


454  THE  WEST 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and 
sunshine, 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple 
amorphas. 

Over  them  wander  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk 
and  the  roebuck; 

Over  them  wander  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  rider- 
less horses; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are 
weary  with  travel; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ish- 
maeFs  children, 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood;  and  above  their 
terrible  war-trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vul- 
ture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaughtered 
in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heav- 
ens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of 
these  savage  marauders; 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of 
swift- running  rivers; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk 
of  the  desert, 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by 
the  brook-side, 


THE  WEST  455 

While  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline 

heaven, 
Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above 

them. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


From  Passage  to  India         <^>    ^>    <^»     -o> 

(The  West) 

T  SEE  over  my  own  continent  the  Pacific  rail- 

•*•     road  surmounting  every  barrier, 

I  see  continual  trains  of  cars  winding  along  the 

Platte  carrying  freight  and  passengers, 
I  hear  the  locomotives  rushing  and  roaring,  and 

the  shrill  steam- whistle, 
I  hear  the  echoes  reverberate  through  the  grandest 

scenery  in  the  world, 

I  cross  the  Laramie  plains,  I  note  the  rocks  in  gro- 
tesque shapes,  the  buttes, 
I  see  the  plentiful  larkspur  and  wild  onions,  the 

barren,  colorless,  sage-deserts, 
I  see  in  glimpses  afar  or  towering  immediately 

above  me  the  great  mountains,  I  see  the  Wind 

river  and  the  Wahsatch  mountains, 
I  see  the  Monument  mountain  and  the  Eagle's 

Nest,  I  pass  the  Promontory,  I  ascend  the 

Nevadas, 
I  scan  the  noble  Elk  mountain  and  wind  around 

its  base, 


456  THE   WEST 

I  see  the  Humboldt  range,  I  thread  the  valley  and 

cross  the  river, 
I  see  the  clear  waters  of  lake  Tahoe,  I  see  forests 

of  majestic  pines, 
Or  crossing  the  great  desert,  the  alkaline  plains,  I 

behold   enchanting   mirages   of   waters   and 

meadows, 
Marking  through  these  and  after  all,  in  duplicate 

slender  lines, 
Bridging  the  three  or  four  thousand  miles  of  land 

travel, 

Tying  the  Eastern  to  the  Western  sea, 
The  road  between  Europe  and  Asia. 

Walt  Whitman. 

Pioneers       <^>     ^>     ^>     *^>     <^>     <^>     <^> 

HPHEY  rise  to  mastery  of  wind  and  snow; 
-*-      They  go  like  soldiers  grimly  into  strife 
To  colonize  the  plain.    They  plough  and  sow, 
And  fertilize  the  sod  with  their  own  life, 
As  did  the  Indian  and  the  buffalo. 

Hamlin  Garland. 

From  The  River  and  I  <^>    <^>    <^>    ^>    <^ 

(The  Missouri  River) 

*T*HE  Missouri  is  unique  among  rivers.    I  think 
•*•      God  wished  to  teach  the  beauty  of  a  virile 
soul  fighting  its  way  toward  peace — and  His  pre- 
cept was  the  Missouri.    To  me,  the  Amazon  is 


THE   MISSOURI  RIVER  457 

a  basking  alligator;  the  Tiber  is  a  dream  of 
dead  glory;  the  Rhine  is  a  fantastic  fairy-tale; 
the  Nile,  a  mummy,  periodically  resurrected;  the 
Mississippi,  a  convenient  geographical  boundary 
line;  the  Hudson,  an  epicurean  philosopher. 

But  the  Missouri — my  brother — is  the  eternal 
Fighting  Man ! 

Not  only  in  its  physical  aspect  does  the  Mis- 
souri appeal  to  the  imagination.  From  Three 
Forks  to  its  mouth — a  distance  of  three  thousand 
miles — this  zigzag  watercourse  is  haunted  with 
great  memories.  Perhaps  never  before  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  has  a  river  been  the  thorough- 
fare of  a  movement  so  tremendously  epic  in  its 
human  appeal,  so  vastly  significant  in  its  relation 
to  the  development  of  man.  And  in  the  building 
of  the  continent,  Nature  fashioned  well  the  scenery 
for  the  great  human  story  that  was  to  be  enacted 
here  in  the  fulness  of  years.  She  built  her  stage 
on  a  large  scale,  taking  no  account  of  miles;  for  the 
coming  actors  were  to  be  big  men,  mighty  travel- 
ers, intrepid  fighters,  laughers  at  time  and  space. 
Plains,  limited  only  by  the  rim  of  sky;  mountains, 
severe,  huge,  tragic  as  fate;  deserts  for  the  trying 
of  strong  spirits;  grotesque  volcanic  lands — dead, 
utterly  ultra-human — where  athletic  souls  might 
struggle  with  despair;  impetuous  streams  with 
their  rapids  terrible  as  Scylla,  where  men  might 
go  down  fighting:  thus  Nature  built  the  stage  and 


THE   WEST 


set  the  scenes.  And  that  the  arrangements  might 
be  complete,  she  left  a  vast  tract  unfinished, 
where  still  the  building  of  the  world  goes  on  —  a 
place  of  awe  in  which  to  feel  the  mighty  Doer  of 
Things  at  work. 

John  G.  Neihardt, 


The  Prairies  lxo>    *o     *^y     <^     <^y    *^>    <^> 

'T'HESE  are  the  Gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
-*•      The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name, — 
The  Prairies.    I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes   in    the    encircling     vastness.     Lo!    they 

stretch 

In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever. — Motionless  ? 
No, — they  are  all  unchained  again.    The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South ! 
That  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poelica'  Works,  by  permission 
of  D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


THE   PRAIRIES  459 

Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not, — ye  have 

played 

Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific, — have  ye  fanned 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work: 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown 

their  slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.    Fitting 

floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky, 
With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations  !    The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 
Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 
As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides, 
The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.    I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.    Are  they  here, — 
The  dead  of  other  days  ? — and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion  ?    Let  the  mighty  mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 


460  THE  WEST 

In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.    A  race,  that  long  has  passed  away, 
Built  them;  a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heaped,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the 

Greek 

Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The  glittering  Parthenon.    These  ample  fields 
Nourished  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were 

fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 
And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their  toils, 
Till  twilight  blushed,  and  lovers  walked,  and  wooed 
In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 
From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 
Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.    The  red  man  came, 
The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 
And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the  earth. 
The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 
Has  settled  where  .they  dwelt.    The  prairie  wolf 
Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 
Yawns  by  my  path.    The  gopher  mines  the  ground 
Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.    All  is  gone, — 
All,  save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones, 
The  platforms  where  they  worshiped  unknown 

gods, 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 
To  keep  the  foe  at  bay,  till  o'er  the  walls 


THE  PRAIRIES  461 

The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 
The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and 

heaped 

With  corpses.    The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 
Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchers, 
And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumphed.    Kindly  words 
Welcomed  and  soothed  him;  the  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seemed  to  forget — yet  ne'er  forgot — the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butchered,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.    Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them  or  is  withdrawn.    The  red  man,  too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.    The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face, — among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.    In  these  plains 


462  THE  WEST 

The  bison  feeds  no  more.    Twice  twenty,  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps, — yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learned  the  fear  of  man 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.    The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.    The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.    I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which   soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.    From  the 

ground 

Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshipers.    The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.    All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE   PRAIRIES  463 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies1       *^y      <^x      -^> 

A  Y,  this  is  freedom ! — these  pure  skies 
•**•    Were  never 'stained  with  village  smoke: 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plow  unbroke. 
Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me,  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 

Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 

From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge; 
The  bear,  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 

Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge; 
In  vain  the  she- wolf  stands  at  bay; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 

Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

1  Reprinted  from  Bryant's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  by  permission 
of  D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


464  THE   WEST 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 

Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  with  a  train 

Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams  and  find 

No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frost-winds  sere 

The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky; 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 

Speaks  solemnly;  and  I  behold 
The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 

And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 
Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew  ? 

Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 
And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue 

Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 
Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 


THE  PLAINS  465 

Wide  are  these  woods — I  tread  the  maze 
Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 

I  hunt  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 
O'er  woody  vale  and  glassy  height; 

And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes 
That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

Crossing  the  Plains  <^>      <^x      ^     *^>      <^> 

VX7HAT  great  yoked  brutes  with  briskets  low, 

*       With  wrinkled  necks  like  buffalo, 
With  round,  brown,  liquid,  pleading  eyes, 
That  turned  so  slow  and  sad  to  you, 
That  shone  like  love's  eyes  soft  with  tears, 
That  seemed  to  plead,  and  iiiake  replies, 
The  while  they  bowed  their  necks  and  drew 
The  creaking  load;  and  looked  at  you. 
Their  sable  briskets  swept  the  ground, 
Their  cloven  feet  kept  solemn  sound. 

Two  sullen  bullocks  led  the  line, 
Their  great  eyes  shining  bright  like  wine; 
Two  sullen  captive  kings  were  they, 
That  had  in  time  held  herds  at  bay, 
And  even  now  they  crushed  the  sod 
With  stolid  sense  of  majesty, 
And  stately  stepped  and  stately  trod, 
As  if  'twere  something  still  to  be 
Kings  even  in  captivity. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


466  TH£  WEST 

SOUTH   DAKOTA 
Dakota     <^*      -v>      <^>      ^>      ^>     <^>     <^> 

OEA-LIKE  in  billowy  distance,  far  away 

*"^    The   half-broke   prairies   stretch  on  every 

hand; 

How  wide  the  circuit  of  their  summer  day — 
What  measureless  acres  of  primeval  land, 
Treeless  and  birdless,  by  no  eyesight  spanned ! 

Looking  along  the  horizon's  endless  line 

Man  seems  a  pygmy  in  these  realms  of  space ; 

No  segment  of  our  planet — so  divine — 
Turns  up  such  beauty  to  the  moon's  fair  face! 

Here  are  soft  grasses,  flowers  of  tender  hue, 
Palimpsests  of  the  old  and  coming  race, 

Vistas  most  wonderful,  and  vast  and  new; 
And  see — above — where  giant  lightnings  play, 
From  what  an  arch  the  sun  pours  forth  the  day ! 

Joel  Benton. 


O1 


From  Hiawatha  <z>     <z>     <z>     <z>     <z>     <^ 

(Cdteau  des  Prairies) 

|N  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 

On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
He  the  Master  of  Life,  descending, 
On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 


COTEAU  DES  PRAIRIES  467 

From  his  footprints  flowed  a  river, 
Leaped  into  the  light  of  morning, 
O'er  the  precipice  plunging  downward 
Gleamed  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet. 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward, 
With  his  finger  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a  winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  "Run  in  this  way !" 

From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a  fragment, 
Molded  it  into  a  pipe-head, 
Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  figures; 
From  the  margin  of  the  river 
Took  a  long  reed  for  a  pipe-stem, 
With  its  dark  green  leases  upon  it; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighboring  forest, 
Made  its  great  boughs  chafe  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  burst  and  kindled; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Smoked  the  calumet,  the  Peace-Pipe, 
As  a  signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  smoke  rose  slowly,  slowly, 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning, 
First  a  single  line  of  darkness, 
Then  a  denser,  bluer  vapor, 


468  THE  WEST 

Then  a  snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 
Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forests, 
Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 
Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven, 
Till  it  broke  against  the  heaven, 
And  rolled  outward  all  around  it. 

From  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
From  the  Valley  of  Wyoming, 
From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 
From  the  far-off  Rocky  Mountains, 
From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 
Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  of  the  nations 
Said:  "Behold  it,  the  Pukwana! 
By  this  signal  from  afar  off, 
Bending  like  a  wand  of  willow, 
Waving  like  a  hand  that  beckons, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 
Calls  the  warriors  to  his  council!" 

Down  the  rivers,  o'er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations, 
Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks, 
Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanches, 
Came  the  Shoshonies  and  Blackfeet, 
Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omahas, 
Came  the  Mandans  and  Dacotahs, 


COTEAU  DES  PRAIRIES  469 

Came  the  Hurons  and  Ojibways, 
All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 
To  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
To  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there  on  the  meadow, 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Wildly  glaring  at  each  other; 
In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 
In  their  hearts  the  feuds  of  ages, 
The  hereditary  hatred, 
The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Creator  of  the  nations, 
Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
With  paternal  love  and  pity; 
Looked  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 
But  as  quarrels  among  children, 
But  as  feuds  and  fights  of  children! 

Over  them  he  stretched  his  right  hand, 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natures, 
To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 
By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand; 
Spake  to  them  with  voice  majestic 
As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 
Falling  into  deep  abysses, 
Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise: — 


470  THE  WEST 

"O  my  children  !  my  poor  children  ! 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  words  of  warning, 
From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
From  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you. 

"I  have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 
I  have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in. 
I  have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 
I  have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 
I  have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wildfowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes; 
Why  then  are  you  not  contented  ? 
Why  then  will  you  hunt  each  other  ? 

"I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 
Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 
Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 
Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions; 
All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 
All  your  danger  is  in  discord; 
Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 
And  as  brothers  live  together. 

"I  will  send  a  Prophet  to  you, 
A  Deliverer  of  the  nations, 
Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you, 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  with  you. 
If  you  listen  to  his  counsels, 
You  will  multiply  and  prosper; 
If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 
You  will  fade  away  and  perish ! 


COTEAU  DES  PRAIRIES  471 

"  Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 
Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 
Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons, 
Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 
Mold  and  make  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you, 
Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 
And  as  brothers  live  henceforward ! " 

Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deer-skin, 
Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 
Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 
Clear  and  limpid  from  the  footprints 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending; 
Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 
Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 
Clean  and  washed  from  all  their  war-paint; 
On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  warlike  weapons. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children  ! 

And  in  silence  all  the  warriors 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 


472  THE  WEST 

Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Broke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 
Decked  them  with  their  brightest  feathers, 
And  departed  each  one  homeward, 
While  the  Master  of  Life,  ascending, 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains, 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven, 
Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 
In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


On  a  South  Dakota  Farm  in  March    <iy    <^> 

(South  Dakota) 

HPHE  West  Wind  takes  his  wide-mouthed  horn 
-*•      And  blows  and  blows  till  from  his  throat 
Come  mellow  chords  of  the  crystal  morn, 
Come  surging  strain  and  a  haunting  note. 
Round  and  round  goes  the  singing  sound 
From  the  blue-bell  sky  to  the  humming  ground, 
Of  sun,  sun,  wind  and  sun, 
For  down  the  world  the  springtides  run, 
And  frost  is  fled  and  sprays  show  red 
And  the  bitter  days  of  the  snows  are  dead. 

In  the  shocks  of  corn  a  long  fine  strain 
As  if  on  airy  viols  made 


SOUTH  DAKOTA  473 

Comes  welling  up  and  faints  again 

Till  oboes  in  the  brown  weeds  played, 

Or  brimming  stream,  take  up  the  theme 

Of  boundless  plain  and  golden  gleam, 

Of  wind,  wind,  sun  and  wind! 

For  the  cold  is  spent  and  the  clouds  are  thinned, 

Now  frost  is  fled  and  sunrise  red 

And  the  gray  old  ghost  of  the  winter  dead. 

So  note  by  note  soars  up  the  tune, 

Through  stubble  field,  through  fringing  brush, 

With  hints  of  April  and  hopes  of  June, 

Sonorous  chantings  and  solemn  hush. 

The  trumps  breathe  low,  the  clarions  blow, 

As  up  the  sky  the  crimsons  grow, 

Of  sun,  sun,  the  wind  and  the  sun; 

Lo !  these  are  the  glories  great  March  hath  won 

Now  frost  is  fled  and  buds  look  red 

And  the  long  dull  night  of  the  year  is  sped. 

The  strain  makes  pause,  the  reeds  are  mute, 
And  a  meadow-lark  from  a  furrow  near, 
A  soul  upborne  on  the  song  of  a  flute, 
Pours  out  his  rapture,  faint  but  clear, 
And  the  West  Wind  lets  his  great  horn  slip 
And  listens,  finger  slant  on  lip. 
Brown,  brown,  gold  and  brown, 
Woven  close  where  the  fields  run  down, 


474  THE  WEST 

Warp  and  woof  of  the  mad  month's  gown 
For  all  her  purples  are  gold  and  brown. 


Gold,  gold,  blue  and  gold: 
These  are  the  colors  that  the  snow  foretold. 
The  soul  of  Spring  in  the  streams  of  old 
Made  love  to  her  image  in  blue  and  gold. 


The  prairie-chickens  wheel  and  whir, 

Brown  and  bright  in  the  slant  sun's  ray; 

The  sap  in  the  cottonwood's  astir, 

The  creek  goes  tinkling  the  livelong  day; 

So  wild  wings  thrum  an  elfin  drum, 

And  gleeful  sounds  the  wind-mill's  hum, 

For  the  corn,  the  corn,  the  sun  on  the  corn, 

And  the  scent  of  summer  on  the  long  winds  borne; 

Now  frost  is  fled  and  from  southland  led 

The  breast  of  the  robin  glimmers  red. 


And  attuned  to  all  with  its  tiny  tone, 

Some  dainty  hand  on  its  trembling  strings, 

A  last  year's  alder,  left  alone, 

As  on  a  harp  adagio  rings; 

The  horns  reply  from  the  faultless  sky 

.As  down  dun  fields  the  measures  fly. 

For  oh,  oh,  the  corn  in  the  sun  ! 

Blow  loud  for  the  things  the  earth  has  done 


SOUTH  DAKOTA  475 

Since  frost  is  fled  and  the  winter  dead 

And  the  grass  up  many  a  hollow  makes  head. 

Soon  as  these  cease  the  lark  resumes 

Its  liquid  warble,  keen  and  strong, 

Of  coming  clover  and  wild  rose  blooms, 

Sun  and  wind  and  cloud  in  a  song, 

And  a  hush  spreads  on  the  glistening  plain 

To  hear  him  carol  loud  again: 

Blue,  blue,  gold  and  blue ! 

And  what  are  these  when  the  leaves  come  new  ? 

Green  and  gold  are  the  colors  true 

When  the  corn  flags  drip  with  the  August  dew. 

Green,  green,  gold  and  green, 

And  dark  red  corn-silk  in  between. 

When  the  waves  of  the  yellow  wheat  are  seen 

Who  thinks  what  the  colors  of  March  may  mean  ? 

For  all  the  music  of  the  wind — 

Green,  green,  gold  and  green; 

For  all  the  glories  by  trumpets  dinned — 

Who  thinks  what  the  color  of  March  may  mean  ? 

Charles  Edward  Russell. 


476  THE  WEST 

THE    ROCKY    MOUNTAINS 

Moonrise  in  the  Rockies1      <^>    <^>     <^*     <^> 

HPHE  trembling  train  clings  to  the  leaning  wall 
•*•      Of  solid  stone;  a  thousand  feet  below 
Sinks  a  black  gulf;  the  sky  hangs  like  a  pall 
Upon  the  peaks  of  everlasting  snow. 

Then  of  a  sudden  springs  a  rim  of  light, 

Curved  like  a  silver  sickle.    High  and  higher  — 

Till  the  full  moon  burns  on  the  breast  of  night, 
And  a  million  firs  stand  tipped  with  lucent  fire. 

Ella  Higginson. 


WASHINGTON 
Mount  Rainier        <^>    <^>    ^>    ^    <^x    <^> 

T  ONG  hours  we  toiled  up  through  the  solemn 
•*—  '    wood 
Beneath  moss-banners  stretched  from  tree  to 

tree; 

At  last  upon  a  barren  hill  we  stood 
And,  lo,  above  loomed  Majesty  ! 

Herbert  Bashford. 

1  Copyright,  1898,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


MOUNT  RAINIER  477 


i       Mount  Rainier :  A  Fragment      <^>     <^>     *^> 

COMETHING  untrodden  in  the  routine  dust 
*^    Of  unconcerned  humanity,  something 
Unclaimed,  some  spot  yet  sacred,  undefiled, 
Above,  beyond  the  daily  round  of  form, 
Still  native,  free,  and  pure — such  seekest  thou, 

0  idle  dreamer  ?    Yonder  turn  thy  gaze 
To  that  intrepid  peak  which  fills  the  sky; 
To  human  eyes  still  changeful,  whether  in 
The  hueless  lights  of  cold  and  unsunned  dawn, 
Or  in  the  warmer  tints  of  brilliant  sunsets; 
Yet  endlessly  the  same,  uplifted — aye, 
Unmoved,  most  strong,  unmindful  of  the  storms 
Of  human  fate  and  human  destiny. 

Fact  visible  of  God  invisible, 

And  mile-post  of  His  ways,  perpetual 

And  snowy  tabernacle  of  the  land; 

While  purples  at  thy  base  this  peaceful  sea, 

And  all  thy  hither  slopes  in  evening  bathe, 

1  hear  soft  twilight  voices  calling  down 

From  all  thy  summits  unto  prayer  and  love.  .  .  . 

Francis  Brooks. 


478  THE  WEST 

OREGON 
The  Grand  Ronde  Valley     *^>    <^>     <^>     *^> 

A  H,  me !    I  know  how  like  a  golden  flower 
**•    The  Grand  Ronde  valley  lies  this  August 

night, 

Locked  in  by  dimpled  hills  where  purple  light 
Lies  wavering.    There  at  the  sunset  hour 
Sink  downward,  like  a  rainbow-tinted  shower, 
A  thousand  colored  rays,  soft,  changeful,  bright. 
Later  the  large  moon  rises,  round  and  white, 
And  three  Blue  Mountain  pines  against  it  tower, 
Lonely  and  dark.    A  coyote's  mournful  cry 
Sinks  from  the  canon, — whence  the  river  leaps 
A  blade  of  silver  underneath  the  moon. 
Like  restful  seas  the  yellow  wheat-fields  lie, 
Dreamless  and  still.    And  while  the  valley  sleeps, 
0  hear ! — the  lullabies  that  low  winds  croon. 

Ella  Higginson. 

CALIFORNIA 
California     <^x     <^>     <^>     <^>     <^     <^>     <^y 

T  STAND  beside  the  mobile  sea; 

And  sails  are  spread,  and  sails  are  furled 
From  farthest  corners  of  the  world, 
And  fold  like  white  wings  wearily. 
Steamships  go  up,  and  some  go  down 
In  haste,  like  traders  in  a  town, 
And  seem  to  see  and  beckon  all. 


CALIFORNIA  479 

Afar  at  sea  some  white  shapes  flee, 
With  arms  stretched  like  a  ghost's  to  me, 
And  cloud-like  sails  far  blown  and  curled, 
Then  glide  down  to  the  under- world. 
As  if  blown  bare  in  winter  blasts 
Of  leaf  and  limb,  tall  naked  masts 
Are  rising  from  the  restless  sea, 
So  still  and  desolate  and  tall, 
I  seem  to  see  them  gleam  and  shine 
With  clinging  drops  of  dripping  brine. 
Broad  still  brown  wings  flit  here  and  there, 
Thin  sea-blue  wings  wheel  everywhere, 
And  white  wings  whistle  through  the  air; 
I  hear  a  thousand  sea-gulls  call. 

Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 
Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  prayer. 
I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 
While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 
Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands. 
The  ocean's  thin  and  hoary  hair 
Is  trailed  along  the  silvered  sands, 
At  every  sigh  and  sounding  moan. 
'Tis  not  a  place  for  mirthfulness, 
But  meditation  deep,  and  prayer, 
And  kneelings  on  the  salted  sod, 
Where  man  must  own  his  littleness 
And  know  the  mightiness  of  God. 
The  very  birds  shriek  in  distress 
And  sound  the  ocean's  monotone. 


480  THE  WEST 

Dared  I  but  say  a  prophecy, 
As  sang  the  holy  men  of  old, 
Of  rock-built  cities  yet  to  be 
Along  these  shining  shores  of  gold, 
Crowding  athirst  into  the  sea, 
What  wondrous  marvels  might  be  told ! 
Enough,  to  know  that  empire  here 
Shall  burn  her  loftiest,  brightest  star; 
Here  art  and  eloquence  shall  reign, 
As  o'er  the  wolf- reared  realm  of  old; 
Here  learned  and  famous  from  afar, 
To  pay  their  noble  court,  shall  come, 
And  shall  not  seek  or  see  in  vain, 
But  look  on  all  with  wonder  dumb. 

Afar  the  bright  Sierras  lie 
A  swaying  line  of  snowy  white, 
A  fringe  of  heaven  hung  in  sight 
Against  the  blue  base  of  the  sky. 

I  look  along  each  gaping  gorge, 
I  hear  a  thousand  sounding  strokes 
Like  giants  rending  giant  oaks, 
Or  brawny  Vulcan  at  his  forge ; 
I  see  pickaxes  flash  and  shine 
And  great  wheels  whirling  in  a  mine. 
Here  winds  a  thick  and  yellow  thread, 
A  mossed  and  silver  stream  instead; 
And  trout  that  leaped  its  rippled  tide 
Have  turned  upon  their  sides  and  died. 


CALIFORNIA  WINTER  481 

Lo !  when  the  last  pick  in  the  mine 
Is  rusting  red  with  idleness, 
And  rot  yon  cabins  in  the  mold, 
And  wheels  no  more  croak  in  distress, 
And  tall  pines  reassert  command, 
Sweet  bards  along  this  sunset  shore 
Their  mellow  melodies  will  pour; 
Will  charm  as  charmers  very  wise, 
Will  strike  the  harp  with  master  hand, 
Will  sound  unto  the  vaulted  skies 
The  valor  of  these  men  of  old, — 
The  mighty  men  of  'Forty-nine; 
Will  sweetly  sing  and  proudly  say, 
Long,  long  agone  there  was  a  day 
When  there  were  giants  in  the  land. 

Joaquin  Miller. 

California  Winter        <^>     ^x     ^     <iy     -o> 

HPHIS  is  not  winter:  where  is  the  crisp  air, 
•*•      And  snow  upon  the  roof,  and  frozen  ponds, 
And  the  star-fire  that  tips  the  icicle  ? 

Here  blooms  the  late  rose,  pale  and  odorless; 
And  the  vague  fragrance  in  the  garden  walks 
Is  but  a  doubtful  dream  of  mignonette. 
In  some  smooth  spot,  under  a  sleeping  oak 
That  has  not  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as  spring, 
The  ground  has  stolen  a  kiss  from  the  cool  sun 
And  thrilled  a  little,  and  the  tender  grass 


482  THE  WEST 

Has  sprung  untimely,  for  these  great  bright  days, 

Staring  upon  it,  will  not  let  it  live. 

The  sky  is  blue,  and  'tis  a  goodly  time, 

And  the  round,  barren  hillsides  tempt  the  feet; 

But  'tis  not  winter:  such  as  seems  to  man 

What  June  is  to  the  roses,  sending  floods 

Of  life  and  color  through  the  tingling  veins. 

It  is  a  land  without  a  fireside.    Far 
Is  the  old  home,  where,  even  this  very  night, 
Roars  the  great  chimney  with  its  glorious  fire, 
And  old  friends  look  into  each  other's  eyes 
Quietly,  for  each  knows  the  other's  trust. 

Heaven  is  not  far  away  such  winter  nights: 
The  big  white  stars  are  sparkling  in  the  east, 
And  glitter  in  the  gaze  of  solemn  eyes; 
For  many  things  have  faded  with  the  flowers, 
And  many  things  their  resurrection  wait; 
Earth  like  a  sepulcher  is  sealed  with  frost, 
And  Morn  and  Even  beside  the  silent  door 
Sit  watching,  and  their  soft  and  folded  wings 
Are  white  with  feathery  snow.     Yet  even  here 
We  are  not  quite  forgotten  by  the  Hours, 
Could  human  eyes  but  see  the  beautiful 
Save  through  the  glamour  of  a  memory. 
Soon  comes  the  strong  south  wind,  and  shouts 

aloud 
Its  jubilant  anthem.    Soon  the  singing  rain 


THE  MARIPOSA  LILY  483 

Comes  from  warm  seas,  and  in  its  skyey  tent 
Enwraps   the  drowsy  world.    And   when,  some 

night, 

Its  flowing  folds  invisibly  withdraw, 
Lo !  the  new  life  in  all  created  things. 
The  azure  mountains  and  the  ocean  gates 
Against  the  lovely  sky  stand  clean  and  clear 
As  a  new  purpose  in  the  wiser  soul. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 


The  Mariposa  Lily     <^>     <^y     ^     <^>     <^> 

INSECT  or  blossom  ?    Fragile,  fairy  thing, 

-*-     Poised  upon  slender  tip,  and  quivering 

To  flight!   a  flower  of  the  fields  of  air; 

A  jeweled  moth;  a  butterfly,  with  rare 

And  tender  tints  upon  his  downy  wing, 

A  moment  resting  in  our  happy  sight; 

A  flower  held  captive  by  a  thread  so  slight 

Its  petal-wings  of  broidered  gossamer 

Are,  light  as  the  wind,  with  every  wind  astir, — 

Wafting  sweet  odor,  faint  and  exquisite. 

O  dainty  nursling  of  the  field  and  sky, 

What  fairer  thing  looks  up  to  heaven's  blue 

And  drinks  the  noontide  sun,  the  dawning's  dew  ? 

Thou  winged  bloom !  thou  blossom-butterfly ! 

Ina  Coolbrith. 


484  THE  WEST 

Rio  Sacramento    <^>    <^>     o    <^>     <^>     < 

C  ACRAMENTO !    Sacramento, 

^    Down  the  rough  Nevada  foaming, 

Fain  my  heart  would  join  thy  water 

In  its  glad,  impetuous  roaming, 
For  thy  valley's  fairest  daughter 

Watches  oft  to  see  thee  coming ! 

Sacramento !    Sacramento ! 

From  the  shining  threads  that  wove  thee, 
From  the  mountain  woods  that  darken 

All  the  mountain  heaven  above  thee, 
Teach  her  ear  thy  song  to  hearken, 

And,  for  what  it  says,  to  love  thee ! 

Sacramento !    Sacramento ! 

Lead  me  downward  to  the  glory 
Of  thy  green  and  flowery  meadows; 

I  will  leave  the  deserts  hoary, 
For  thy  grove  of  quiet  shadows 

And  my  love's  impassioned  story. 

Sacramento !     Sacramento ! 

Every  dancing  rainbow  broken 
When  thy  falling  waves  are  shattered, 

Is  a  glad  and  beckoning  token 
Of  the  hopes  so  warmly  scattered 

And  the  vows  that  we  have  spoken  ! 


NEAR  SAN  FRANCISCO  485 

Sacramento  !     Sacramento  ! 

She,  beside  thee,  waits  my  coming; 
Teach  my  step  thy  bounding  fleetness, 

Towards  the  bower  of  beauty  roaming, 
Where  she  stands,  in  maiden  sweetness, 

Gazing  idly  on  thy  foaming  ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 
From  The  Silverado  Squatters     <^>    <^>    <^> 

(Near  San  Francisco) 

"C^ARLY  the  next  morning  we  mounted  the  hill 
•*— '  along  a  wooden  footway,  bridging  one  mar- 
ish  spot  after  another..  Here  and  there,  as  we 
ascended,  we  passed  a  house  embowered  in  white 
roses.  More  of  the  bay  became  apparent,  and 
soon  the  blue  peak  of  Tairalpais  rose  above  the 
green  level  of  the  island  opposite.  It  told  us  we 
were  still  but  a  little  way  from  the  city  of  the 
Golden  Gates,  already,  at  that  hour,  beginning  to 
awake  among  the  sand-hills.  It  called  to  us  over 
the  waters  as  with  the  voice  of  a  bird.  Its  stately 
head,  blue  as  a  sapphire  on  the  paler  azure  of  the 
sky,  spoke  to  us  of  wider  outlooks  and  the  bright 
Pacific.  For  Tamalpais  stands  sentry,  like  a  light- 
house, over. the  Golden  Gates,  between  the  bay 
and  the  open  ocean,  and  looks  down  indifferently 
on  both.  Even  as  we  saw  and  hailed  it  from  Val- 
lejo,  seamen,  far  out  at  sea,  were  scanning  it  with 


486  THE  WEST 

shaded  eyes;  and,  as  if  to  answer  to  the  thought, 
one  of  the  great  ships  below  began  silently  to 
clothe  herself  with  white  sails,  homeward  bound 
for  England. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


As  I  Came  Down  Mount  Tamalpais   <^> 

{Mount  Tamalpais) 

A  S  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 
•**    To  north  the  fair  Sonoma  Hills 
Lay  like  a  trembling  thread  of  blue 

Beneath  a  sky  of  daffodils; 
Through  tules  green  a  silver  stream 

Ran  south  to  meet  the  tranquil  bay, 
Whispering  a  dreamy,  tender  tale 

Of  vales  and  valleys  far  away. 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 

To  south  the  city  brightly  shone, 
Touched  by  the  sunset's  good-night  kiss 

Across  the  golden  ocean  blown; 
I  saw  its  hills,  its  tapering  masts, 

I  almost  heard  its  tramp  and  tread, 
And  saw  against  the  sky  the  cross 

Which  marks  the  City  of  the  Dead. 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais 
To  east  San  Pablo's  water  lay, 


SAN  FRANCISCO  487 

Touched  with  a  holy  purple  light, 

The  benediction  of  the  day; 
No  ripple  on  its  twilight  tide, 

No  parting  of  its  evening  veil, 
Save  dimly  in  the  far-off  haze 

One  dreamy,  yellow  sunset  sail. 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 

To  west  Heaven's  gateway  opened  wide, 
And  through  it,  freighted  with  day-cares, 

The  cloud-ships  floated  with  the  tide; 
Then,  silently  through  stilly  air, 

Starlight  flew  down  from  Paradise, 
Folded  her  silver  wings  and  slept 

Upon  the  slopes  of  Tamalpais. 

Clarence  Urmy. 


From  The  Hermitage  <^>     <z>     <^     <z>     <z> 

(San  Francisco) 

HPHROUGH  the  sharp  gap  of  the  gorge  below, 
•*-      From  my  mountain's  feet  the  gaze  may  go 
Over  a  stretch  of  fields,  broad-sunned, 
Then  glance  beyond, 
Across  the  beautiful  bay, 
To  that  dim  ridge,  a  score  of  miles  away, 
Lifting  its  clear-cut  outline  high, 
Azure  with  distance  on  the  azure  sky, 


488  THE  WEST 

Whose  flocks  of  white  clouds  brooding  on  its 

crests 

Have  winged  from  ocean  to  their  piny  nests. 
Beyond  the  bright  blue  water's  further  rim, 
Where  waves  seem  ripples  in  its  far-off  brim, 
The  rich  young  city  lies, 
Diminished  to  an  ant-hill's  size. 
I  trace  its  steep  streets,  ribbing  all  the  hill 
Like  narrow  bands  of  steel, 
Binding  the  city  on  the  shifting  sand: 
Thick-pressed  between  them  stand 
Broad  piles  of  buildings,  pricked  through  here  and 

there 

By  a  sharp  steeple;  and  above,  the  air 
Murky  with  smoke  and  dust,  that  seem  to  show 
The  bright  sky  saddened  by  the  sin  below. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 


Alcatraz       ^>     ^y     ^     <^x     ^ 

(San  Francisco  Bay) 

PEARL  foam  at  his  feet 

The  waters  rise  and  fall: 
The  sentry  treads  his  beat 
Upon  the  gun-girt  wall. 


A 


Bronzed  of  visage  he, — 
Stern,  resolute  as  fate; 

Guard  of  the  inner  sea, 
Grim  warden  of  the  Gate. 


SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY  489 

Born  of  some  mighty  throe 

From  earth's  abysmal  deep, 
When  aeons  long  ago, 

The  Dragon  stirred  in  sleep. 


Yet  over  him,  merrily, 

The  winds  blow  East,  blow  West,- 
The  gulls  about  him  fly, 

The  fog-king  wreathes  his  crest. 


All  day  sea-melodies 

Blend  with  the  oarsman's  stroke, 
In  the  Fleet  of  the  Butterflies, 

The  craft  of  the  fisher-folk. 


Then  boom  of  the  sunset  gun, 
The  flash  of  the  beacon-light, 

Leaping  a  warning  sun 
To  passing  ships  of  night. 

And  the  fleets  of  all  the  world 

Salute  him  as  they  pass, — 
Viking  of  seas  empearled, 

The  warrior,  Alcatraz. 

Ina  Coolbrith. 


490  THE  WEST 

Presidio  de  San  Francisco  1800   ^o>    <o    *c> 

i 

T   OOKING  seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills  stands 
-1— '     the  fortress,  old  and  quaint, 
By  the  San  Francisco  friars  lifted  to  their  patron 
saint, — 

Sponsor  to  that  wondrous  city,  now  apostate  to 

the  creed, 
On  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw  the  angel's 

golden  reed; 

All  its  trophies  long  since  scattered,  all  its  blazon 

brushed  away, 
And  the  flag  that  flies  above  it  but  a  triumph  of 

to-day. 

Never  scar  of  siege  or  battle  challenges  the  wander- 
ing eye,— 

Never  breach  of  warlike  onset  holds  the  curious 
passer-by ; 

Only   one   sweet  human   fancy  interweaves  its 

threads  of  gold 
With  the  plain  and  homespun  present,  and  a  love 

that  ne'er  grows  old; 


SAN  FRANCISCO  491 

Only  one  thing  holds  its  crumbling  walls  above  the 

meaner  dust, — 
Listen  to  the  simple  story  of  a  woman's  love  and^ 

trust. 

n 

Count  von  Resanoff,  the  Russian,  envoy  of  the 

mighty  Czar, 
Stood  beside  the    deep   embrasures   where   the 

brazen  cannon  are. 

He  with  grave  provincial  magnates  long  had  held 

serene  debate 
On  the  Treaty  of  Alliance  and  the  high  affairs  of 

state; 

He,  from  grave  provincial  magnates,  oft  had 
turned  to  talk  apart 

With  the  Commandante's  daughter,  on  the  ques- 
tions of  the  heart, 

Until  points  of  gravest  import  yielded  slowly,  one 

by  one, 
And  by  Love  was  consummated  what  Diplomacy 

begun; 

Till  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen 

cannon  are, 
He  received  the  twofold  contract  for  approval  of 

the  Czar; 


492  THE  WEST 

Till  beside  the  brazen  cannon  the  betrothed  bade 

adieu, 
And,  from   sally-port   and   gateway,   north   the 

Russian  eaglee  flew. 

m 

Long    beside   the   deep   embrasures,    where  the 

brazen  cannon  are, 
Did  they  wait  the  promised  bridegroom  and  the 

answer  of  the  Czar; 

Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the  hollow 

empty  breeze, — 
Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the  vacant, 

smiling  seas; 

Week  by  week  the  near  hills  whitened  in  their 

dusty  leather  cloaks, — - 
Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened  from  the 

fringing  plain  of  oaks; 

Till  the  rains  came,  and  far-breaking,  on  the  fierce 

southwester  tost, 
Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  color,  and  then 

vanished  and  were  lost. 

So  each  year  the  seasons  shifted;  wet  and  warm 

and  drear  and  dry; 
Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers, — half  a  year  of 

dust  and  sky. 


SAN  FRANCISCO  493 

Still  it  brought  no  ship  nor  message, — brought  no 

tidings  ill  nor  meet 
For    the    statesmanlike     Commander,    for    the 

daughter  fair  and  sweet. 

Yet  she  heard  the  varying  message,  voiceless  to 

all  ears  beside: 
"He  will  come,"  the  flowers  whispered;  "Come  no 

more,"  the  dry  hills  sighed. 

Still  she  found  him  with  the  waters  lifted  by  the 

morning  breeze,— 
Still  she  lost  him  with  the  folding  of  the  great 

white- tented  seas; 

Until  hollows  chased  the  dimples  from  her  cheeks 

of  olive  brown, 
And  at  times  a  swift,  shy  moisture  dragged  the 

long  sweet  lashes  down; 

Or  the  small  mouth  curved  and  quivered  as  for 
some  denied  caress, 

And  the  fair  young  brow  was  knitted  in  an  infan- 
tine distress. 

Then  the  grim   Commander,  pacing  where  the 

brazen  cannon  are, 
Comforted   the    maid    with   proverbs, — wisdom 

gathered  from  afar; 


494  THE  WEST 

Bits  of  ancient  observation  by  his  fathers  gar- 
nered, each 

As  a  pebble  worn  and  polished  in  the  current  of  his 
speech: 

"'Those  who  wait  the  coming  rider  travel  twice 

as  far  as  he'; 
'Tired  wench  and  coming  butter  never  did  in  time 

agree.' 

'"He  that  getteth  himself  honey,  though  a  clown 

he  shall  have  flies'; 
'In  the  end  God  grinds  the  miller';  'In  the  dark 

the  mole  has  eyes.' 

'"He  whose  father  is  Alcalde,  of  his  trial  hath  no 

fear,' — 
And  be  sure  the  Count  has  reasons  that  will  make 

his  conduct  clear." 

Then  the  voice  sententious  faltered,  and  the  wis- 
dom it  would  teach 

Lost  itself  in  fondest  trifles  of  his  soft  Castilian 
speech; 

And  on  "Concha,"  "Conchitita,"  and  "  Conchita" 

he  would  dwell 
With  the  fond  reiteration  which  the  Spaniard 

knows  so  well. 


SAN  FRANCISCO  495 

So  with  proverbs  and  caresses,  half  in  faith  and 

half  in  doubt, 
Every  day   some   hope   was    kindled,   flickered, 

faded,  and  went  out. 

IV 

Yearly,    down    the  hillside  sweeping,   came  the 

stately  cavalcade, 
Bringing  revel  to  vaquero,  joy  and  comfort  to 

each  maid; 

Bringing  days  of  formal  visit,  social  feast  and  rus- 
tic sport; 

Of  bull-baiting  on  the  plaza,  of  love-making  in  the 
court. 

Vainly  then  at  Concha's  lattice, — vainly  as  the 

idle  wind 
Rose  the  thin  high  Spanish  tenor  that  bespoke  the 

youth  too  kind; 

Vainly,  leaning  from  their  saddles,  caballeros,  bold 

and  fleet, 
Plucked  for  her  the  buried  chicken  from  beneath 

their  mustang's  feet; 

So  in  vain  the  barren  hillsides  with  their  gay 

scrapes  blazed, 
Blazed  and  vanished  in  the  dust-cloud  that  their 

flying  hoofs  had  raised. 


496  THE  WEST 

Then  the  drum  called  from  the  rampart,  and  once 

more  with  patient  mien 
The  Commander  and  his  daughter  each  took  up 

the  dull  routine, — 

Each  took  up  the  petty  duties  of  a  life  apart  and 

lone, 
Till  the  slow  years  wrought  a  music  in  its  dreary 

monotone. 


Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  swept  the  hollow 
idle  breeze, 

Since  the  Russian  eagle  fluttered  from  the  Cali- 
fornia seas. 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  wrought  its'  slow 

but  sure  decay; 
And  St.  George's  cross  was  lifted  in  the  port  of 

Monterey. 

And  the  citadel  was  lighted,  and  the  hall  was 

gayly  drest, 
All  to  honor  Sir  George  Simpson,  famous  traveler 

and  guest. 

Far  and  near  the  people  gathered  to  the  costly 

banquet  set, 
And  exchanged  congratulation  with  the  English 

baronet; 


SAN  FRANCISCO  497 

Till  the  formal  speeches  ended,  and  amidst  the 

laugh  and  wine 
Some  one  spoke  of  Concha's  lover, — heedless  of 

the  warning  sign. 

Quickly  then  cried  Sir  George  Simpson:  "Speak 

no  ill  of  him,  I  pray. 
He  is  dead.    He  died,  poor  fellow,  forty  years  ago 

this  day. 

"Died  while  speeding  home  to  Russia,  falling  from 

a  fractious  horse. 
Left  a  sweetheart  too,  they  tell  me.    Married,  I 

suppose,  of  course ! 

"  Lives  she  yet  ?  "  A  death-like  silence  fell  on  ban- 
quet, guests,  and  hall, 

And  a  trembling  figure  rising  fixed  the  awe-struck 
gaze  of  all. 

Two  black  eyes  in  darkened  orbits  gleamed  be- 
neath the  nun's  white  hood; 

Black  serge  hid  the  wasted  figure,  bowed  and 
stricken  where  it  stood. 

"Lives  she  yet?  "  Sir  George  repeated.    All  were 

hushed  as  Concha  drew 
Closer  yet  her  nun's  attire.    "Sefior,  pardon,  she 

died  too ! " 

Bret  Harte. 


498  THE  WEST 

The  Angelus  *o    *^>    <^    <ix    *^>    <^    ^> 

(San  Francisco) 

Heard  at  the  Mission  Dolores,  1868. 

T)  ELLS  of  the  Past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 

Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 
Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  Present 

With  colors  of  romance: 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 
On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 

As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices  blending 
Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 

No  blight  nor  mildew  falls; 
Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 

Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past, — 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dream  and  last ! 

Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 


SAN  JOAQUIN  499 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  cross  uplifting 

Above  the  setting  sun; 
And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting 

The  freighted  galleon. 

O  solemn  bells !  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old, — 
O  tinkling  bells !  that  lulled  with  twilight  music 

The  spiritual  fold ! 

Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness, — 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still; 
And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 

The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill ! 

Bret  Harte. 

The  Wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin        <^> 

( San  Joaquin) 

all  the  fountains  that  poets  sing, — 
Crystal,  thermal,  or  mineral  spring; 
Ponce  de  Leon's  Fount  of  Youth; 
Wells  with  bottoms  of  doubtful  truth; 
In  short,  of  all  the  springs  of  Time 
That  ever  were  flowing  in  fact  or  rhyme, 
That  ever  were  tasted,  felt,  or  seen, — 
There  were  none  like  the  Spring  of  San  Joaquin. 

Anno  Domini  Eigh teen-seven, 
Father  Dominguez  (now  in  heaven, — 
Obiit  Eighteen  twenty-seven) 


500  THE  WEST 

Found  the  spring,  and  found  it,  too, 
By  his  mule's  miraculous  cast  of  a  shoe; 
For  his  beast — a  descendant  of  Balaam's  ass- 
Stopped  on  the  instant,  and  would  not  pass. 
The  Padre  thought  the  omen  good, 
And  bent  his  lips  to  the  trickling  flood; 
Then, — as  the  chronicles  declare, 

On  the  honest  faith  of  a  true  believer, — 
His  cheeks,  though  wasted,  lank,  and  bare, 
Filled  like  a  withered  russet-pear 
In  the  vacuum  of  a  glass  receiver, 

And  the  snows  that  seventy  winters  bring 
Melted  away  in  that  magic  spring. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  wondrous  news 
The  Padre  brought  into  Santa  Cruz. 
The  Church,  of  course,  had  its  own  views 
Of  who  were  worthiest  to  use 
The  magic  spring;  but  the  prior  claim 
Fell  to  the  aged,  sick,  and  lame. 
Far  and  wide  the  people  came: 
Some  from  the  healthful  Aptos  creek 
Hastened  to  bring  their  helpless  sick; 
Even  the  fishers  of  rude  Soquel 
Suddenly  found  they  were  far  from  well; 
The  brawny  dwellers  of  San  Lorenzo 
Said,  in  fact,  they  had  never  been  so: 
And  all  were  ailing, — strange  to  say, — 
From  Pescadero  to  Monterey. 


SAN  JOAQUIN  501 

Over  the  mountain  they  poured  in 
With  leathern  bottles,  and  bags  of  skin; 
Through  the  canons  a  motley  throng 
Trotted,  hobbled,  and  limped  along. 
The  fathers  gazed  at  the  moving  scene 
With  pious  joy  and  with  souls  serene; 
And  then — a  result  perhaps  foreseen — 
They  laid  out  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 


Not  in  the  eyes  of  Faith  alone 

The  good  effects  of  the  waters  shone; 

But  skins  grew  rosy,  eyes  waxed  clear, 

Of  rough  vaquero  and  muleteer; 

Angular  forms  were  rounded  out 

Limbs  grew  supple,  and  waists  grew  Stout; 

And  as  for  the  girls, — for  miles  about 

They  had  no  equal !    To  this  day, 

From  Pescadero  to  Monterey, 

You'll  still  find  eyes  in  which  are  seen 

The  liquid  graces  of  San  Joaquin. 

There  is  a  limit  to  human  bliss, 

And  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin  had  this: 

None  went  abroad  to  roam  or  stay, 

But  they  fell  sick  in  the  queerest  way, — 

A  singular  maladie  du  pays, 

With  gastric  symptoms:  so  they  spent 

Their  days  in  a  sensuous  content; 


502  THE  WEST 

Caring  little  for  things  unseen 
Beyond  their  bowers  of  living  green, — 
Beyond  the  mountains  that  lay  between 
The  world  and  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 

Winter  passed,  and  the  summer  came: 
The  trunks  of  madrono  all  aflame, 
Here  and  there  through  the  underwood 
Like  pillars  of  fire  starkly  stood. 
All  of  the  breezy  solitude 

Was  filled  with  the  spicing  of  pine  and  bay 
And  resinous  odors  mixed  and  blended, 

And  dim  and  ghost-like  far  away 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  woods  ascended. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  mountains  swam, 
The  rivers  piled  their  floods  in  a  dam, 
The  ridge  above  Los  Gatos  creek    * 

Arched  its  spine  in  a  feline  fashion; 
The  forests  waltzed  till  they  grew  sick, 

And  Nature  shook  in  a  speechless  passion; 
And,  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake's  spleen, 
The  wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin 
Vanished,  and  nevermore  was  seen! 

Two  days  passed:  the  Mission  folk 

Out  of  their  rosy  dream  awoke. 

Some  of  them  looked  a  trifle  white; 

But  that,  no  doubt,  was  from  earthquake  fright. 


CALAVERAS  503 

Three  days:  there  was  sore  distress, 
Headache,  nausea,  giddiness. 
Four  days:  faintings,  tenderness 
Of  the  mouth  and  fauces;  and  in  less 
Than  one  week, — here  the  story  closes; 
We  won't  continue  the  prognosis, — 
Enough  that  now  no  trace  is  seen 
Of  Spring  or  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 

Bret  Harte. 

On  a  Cone  of  the  Big  Trees      <o      ^      *^> 

( Calaveras) 

"DROWN  foundling  of  the  Western  wood, 
***     Babe  of  primeval  wildernesses! 
Long  on  my  table  thou  hast  stood 

Encounters  strange  and  rude  caresses; 
Perchance  contented  with  thy  lot, 

Surroundings  new  and  curious  faces, 
As  though  ten  centuries  were  not 

Imprisoned  in  thy  shining  cases ! 

Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  halcyon  days 

Of  grateful  rest;  the  week  of  leisure, 
The  journey  lapped  in  autumn  haze, 

The  sweet  fatigue  that  seemed  a  pleasure, 
The  morning  ride,  the  noonday  halt, 

The  blazing  slopes,  the  red  dust  rising, 
And  then — the  dim,  brown,  columned  vault, 

With  its  cool,  damp,  sepulchral  spicing. 


504  THE  WEST 

Once  more  I  see  the  rocking  masts 

That  scrape  the  sky,  their  only  tenant 
The  jay-bird  that  in  frolic  casts 

From  some  high  yard  his  broad  blue  pennant. 
I  see  the  Indian  files  that  keep 

Their  places  in  the  dusty  heather, 
Their  red  trunks  standing  ankle  deep 

In  moccasins  of  rusty  leather. 

I  see  all  this,  and  marvel  much 

That  thou,  sweet  woodland  waif,  art  able 
To  keep  the  company  of  such 

As  throng  thy  friend's — the  poet's — table: 
The  latest  spawn  the  press  hath  cast, — 

The  "modern  Pope's,"  "the  later  Byron's,"— 
Why  e'en  the  best  may  not  outlast 

Thy  poor  relation, — Sempervirens. 

Thy  sire  saw  the  light  that  shone 

On  Mohammed's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 

And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present; 
He  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 

And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches; 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 

The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches. 

And  must  thou,  foundling,  still  forego 
Thy  heritage  and  high  ambition, 


MONTEREY  505 

To  lie  full  lowly  and  full  low, 

Adjusted  to  thy  new  condition  ? 
Not  hidden  in  the  drifted  snows, 

But  under  ink-drops  idly  spattered, 
And  leaves  ephemeral  as  those 

That  on  thy  woodland  tomb  were  scattered. 

Yet  lie  thou  there,  0  friend !  and  speak 

The  moral  of  thy  simple  story: 
Though  life  is.  all  that  thou  dost  seek, 

And  age  alone  thy  crown  of  glory, — 
Not  thine  the  only  germs  that  fail 

The  purpose  of  their  high  creation, 
If  their  poor  tenements  avail 

For  worldly  show  and  ostentation. 

Bret  Harte. 

The  Pine  Forest  of  Monterey     <^>     <o     <o> 

(Monterey) 

\  1(  7"HAT  point  of  Time,  unchronicled,  and  dim 
*  ^      As  yon   gray  mist    that   canopies   your 

heads, 

Took  from  the  greedy  wave  and  gave  the  sun 
Your  dwelling-place,  ye  gaunt  and  hoary  Pines  ? 
When,  from  the  barren  "bosoms  of  the  hills, 
With  scanty  nurture,  did  ye  slowly   climb, 
Of  these  remote  and  latest-fashioned  shores 
The  first-born  forest  ?    Titans  gnarled  and  rough, 


506  THE  WEST 

Such  as  from  out  subsiding  Chaos  grew 
To  clothe  the  cold  loins  of  the  savage  earth, 
What  fresh  commixture  of  the  elements, 
What  earliest  thrill  of  life,  the  stubborn  soil 
Slow-mastering,  engendered  ye  to  give 
The  hills  a  mantle  and  the  wind  a  voice  ? 
Along  the  shore  ye  lift  your  rugged  arms, 
Blackened   with    many    fires,    and   with    hoarse 

chant, — 

Unlike  the  fibrous  lute  your  co-mates  touch 
In  elder  regions, — fill  the  awful  stops 
Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the  surf. 
Have  ye  no  tongue,  in  all  your  sea  of  sound 
To  syllable  the  secret, — no  still  voice 
To  give  your  airy  myths  a  shadowy  form, 
And  make  us  of  lost  centuries  of  lore 
The  rich  inheritors  ? 

The  sea- winds  pluck 

Your  mossy  beards,  and  gathering  as  they  sweep, 
Vex  your  high  heads,  and  with  your  sinewy  arms 
Grapple  and  toil  in  vain.    A  deeper  roar, 
Sullen  and  cold,  and  rousing  into  spells 
Of  stormy  volume,  is  your  sole  reply. 
Anchored  in  firm-set  rock,  ye  ride  the  blast, 
And  from  the  promontory's  utmost  verge 
Make  signal  o'er  the  waters.    So  ye  stood, 
When,  like  a  star,  behind  the  lonely  sea, 
Far  shone  the  white  speck  of  Grijalva's  sail; 


MONTEREY  507 

And  when,  through  driving  fog,  the  breaker's  sound 
Frighted  Otondo's  men,  your  spicy  breath 
Played  as  in  welcome  round  their  rusty  helms, 
And  backward  from  its  staff  shook  out  the  folds 
Of  Spain's  emblazoned  banner. 

Ancient  Pines, 

Ye  bear  no  record  of  the  years  of  man. 
Spring  is  your  sole  historian, — Spring,  that  paints 
These  savage  shores  with  hues  of  Paradise; 
That  decks  your  branches  with  a  fresher  green, 
And  through  your  lonely,  far  canadas  pours 
Her  floods  of  bloom,  rivers  of  opal  dye 
That  wander  down  to  lakes  and'widening  seas 
Of  blossom  and  of  fragrance, — laughing  Spring, 
That  with  her  wanton  blood  refills  your  veins, 
And  weds  ye  to  your  juicy  youth  again 
With  a  new  ring,  the  while  your  rifted  bark 
Drops  odorous  tears.    Your  knotty  fibers  yield 
To  the  light  touch  of  her  unfailing  pen, 
As  freely  as  the  lupin's  violet  cup. 
Ye  keep,  close-locked,  the  memories  of  her  stay, 
As  in  their  shells  the  avelones  keep 
Morn's  rosy  flush  and  moonlight's  pearly  glow. 
The  wild  northwest,  that  from  Alaska  sweeps, 
To  drown  Point  Lobos  with  the  icy  scud 
And  white  sea-foam,  may  rend  your  boughs  and 

leave 
Their  blasted  antlers  tossing  in  the  gale; 


508  THE  WEST 

Your  steadfast  hearts  are  mailed   against  the 

shock, 

And  on  their  annual  tablets  naught  inscribe 
Of  such  rude  visitation.    Ye  are  still 
The  simple  children  of  a  guiltless  soil, 
And  in  your  natures  show  the  sturdy  grain 
That  passion  cannot  jar,  nor  force  relax, 
Nor  aught  but  sweet  and  kindly  airs  compel 
To  gentler  mood.    No  disappointed  heart 
Has  sighed  its  bitterness  beneath  your  shade; 
No  angry  spirit  ever  came  to  make 
Your  silence  its  confessional;  no  voice, 
Grown  harsh  in  Crime's  great  market-place,  the 

\vorld, 

Tainted  with  blasphemy  your  evening  hush 
And  aromatic  air.    The  deer  alone, — 
The  ambushed  hunter  that  brings  down  the  deer, — 
The  fisher  wandering  on  the  misty  shore 
To  watch  sea-lions  wallow  in  the  flood, — 
The  shout,  the  sound  of  hoofs  that  chase  and  fly, 
When  swift  vaqueros,  dashing  through  the  herds, 
Ride  down  the  angry  bull, — perchance,  the  song 
Some  Indian  heired  of  long-forgotten  sires, — 
Disturb  your  solemn  chorus. 

Stately  Pines, 

But  few  more  years  around  the  promontory 
Your  chant  will  meet  the  thunders  of  the  sea. 
No  more,  a  barrier  to  the  encroaching  sand, 


MONTEREY  509 

Against  the  surf  ye'll  stretch  defiant  arm, 
Though  with  its  onset  and  besieging  shock 
Your  firm  knees  tremble.    Nevermore  the  wind 
Shall  pipe  shrill  music  through  your  mossy  beards, 
Nor  sunset's  yellow  blaze  athwart  your  heads 
Crown  all  the  hills  with  gold.    Your  race  is  past: 
The  mystic  cycle,  whose  unnoted  birth 
Coeval  was  with  yours,  has  run  its  sands, 
And  other  footsteps  from  these  changing  shores 
Frighten  its  haunting  Spirit.    Men  will  come 
To  vex  your  quiet  with  the  din  of  toil; 
The  smoky  volumes  of  the  forge  will  stain 
This  pure,  sweet  air;  loud  keels  will  ride  the  sea, 
Dashing  its  glittering  sapphire  into  foam; 
Through  all  her  green  cafiadas  Spring  will  seek 
Her  lavish  blooms  in  vain,  and  clasping  ye, 
O  mournful  Pines,  within  her  glowing  arms, 
Will  weep  soft  rains  to  find  ye  fallen  low. 
Fall,  therefore,  yielding  to  the  fiat !    Fall, 
Ere  the  maturing  soil,  whose  first  dull  life 
Fed  your  belated  germs,  be  rent  and  seamed ! 
Fall,  like  the  chiefs  ye  sheltered,  stern,  unbent, 
Your  gray  beards  hiding  memorable  scars ! 
The  winds  will  mourn  ye,  and  the  barren  hills 
Whose  breast  ye  clothed;  and  when  the  pauses 

come 

Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the  surf, 
A  funeral  silence,  terrible,  profound, 
Will  make  sad  answer  to  the  listening  sea. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


510  THE  WEST 

Santa  Barbara      *^>     <^y     <^>     <^>     *^>     <^> 

"DETWEEN  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
^-*     Walled  by  the  rock,  fringed  by  the  foam, 
A  valley  stretches  fair  and  free 

Beneath  the  blue  of  heaven's  dome. 

At  rest  in  that  fair  valley  lies 

Saint  Barbara,  the  beauteous  maid; 

Above  her  head  the  cloudless  skies 

Smile  down  upon  her  charms  displayed. 

The  sunlit  mountains  o'er  her  shed 

The  splendor  of  their  purple  tinge; 
While  round  her  like  a  mantle  spread 
•  The  blue  seas  with  their  silver  fringe. 

Enfolded  in  that  soothing  calm, 

The  earth  seems  sweet,  and  heaven  near; 

The  flowers  bloom  free,  the  air  is  balm, 
And  summer  rules  the  radiant  year. 

Francis  Fisher  Browne. 

By  the  Pacific  Ocean   <^>     *^>     <^>     <^>     x^> 

TTERE  room  and  kingly  silence  keep 
•*•  -*-     Companionship  in  state  austere; 
The  dignity  of  death  is  here, 
The  large,  lone  vastness  of  the  deep; 


ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA  511 

Here  toil  has  pitched  his  camp  to  rest: 
The  west  is  banked  against  the  west. 

Above  yon  gleaming  skies  of  gold 
One  lone  imperial  peak  is  seen; 
While  gathered  at  his  feet  in  green 
Ten  thousand  foresters  are  told: 
And  all  so  still !  so  still  the  air 
That  duty  drops  the  web  of  care. 

Beneath  the  sunset's  golden  sheaves 
The  awful  deep  walks  with  the  deep, 
Where  silent  sea  doves  slip  and  sweep, 
And  commerce  keeps  her  loom  and  weaves, 
The  dead  red  men  refuse  to  rest; 
Their  ghosts  illume  my  lurid  West. 

Joaquin  Miller. 

On  Leaving  California      ^>      ^y      <^>      ^> 

FAIR  young  land,  the  youngest,  fairest  far 

Of  which  our  world  can  boast, — 
Whose  guardian  planet,  Evening's  silver  star, 
Illumes  thy  golden  coast, — 

How  art  thou  conquered,  tamed  in  all  the  pride 

Of  savage  beauty  still ! 
How  brought,  O  panther  of  the  splendid  hide, 

To  know  thy  master's  will ! 


512  THE  WEST 

No  more  thou  sittest  on  thy  tawny  hills 

In  indolent  repose; 
Or  pourest  the  crystal  of  a  thousand  rills 

Down  from  thy  house  of  snows. 

But  where  the  wild-oats  wrapped  thy  knees  in 

gold, 

The  plowman  drives  his  share, 
And  where,  through  canons  deep,  thy  streams  are 

rolled, 
The  miner's  arm  is  bare. 

Yet  in  thy  lap,  thus  rudely  rent  and  torn, 

A  nobler  seed  shall  be: 
Mother  of  mighty  men,  thou  shalt  not  mourn 

Thy  lost  virginity! 

Thy  human  children  shall  restore  the  grace 

Gone  with  thy  fallen  pines: 
The  wild,  barbaric  beauty  of  thy  face 

Shall  round  to  classic  lines. 

And  Order,  Justice,  Social  Law  shall  curb 

Thy  untamed  energies; 
And  Art  and  Science,  with  their  dreams  superb, 

Replace  thine  ancient  ease. 

The  marble,  sleeping  in  thy  mountains  now, 
Shall  live  in  sculptures  rare; 


YUMA  513 

Thy  native  oak  shall  crown  the  sage's  brow, — 
Thy  bay,  the  poet's  hair. 

Thy  tawny  hills  shall  bleed  their  purple  wine, 

Thy  valleys  yield  their  oil; 
And  Music,  with  her  eloquence  divine, 

Persuade  thy  sons  to  toil; 

Till  Hesper,  as  he  trims  his  silver  beam, 

No  happier  land  shall  see, 
And  Earth  shall  find  her  old  Arcadian  dream 

Restored  again  in  thee ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 

ARIZONA 
Yuma       <^x    <o    -o>    <^    <^x    <^>    *^>    *o 

ARY,  weary,  desolate, 
Sand-swept,  parched,  and  cursed 
of  fate; 

Burning,  but  how  passionless ! 

Barren,  bald,  and  pitiless ! 

Through  all  ages  baleful  moons 
Glared  upon  thy  whited  dunes; 

And  malignant,  wrathful  suns 
Fiercely  drank  thy  streamless  runs; 

So  that  Nature's  only  tune 
Is  the  blare  of  the  simoon, 


514  THE  WEST 

Piercing  burnt  unweeping  skies 
With  its  awful  monodies. 

Not  a  flower  lifts  its  head 
Where  the  emigrant  lies  dead; 

Not  a  living  creature  calls 
Where  the  Gila  Monster  crawls, 
Hot  and  hideous  as  the  sun, 
To  the  dead  man's  skeleton; 

But  the  desert  and  the  dead, 
And  the  hot  hell  overhead, 
And  the  blazing,  seething  air, 
And  the  dread  mirage  are  there. 

Charles  Henry  P helps. 

Arizona      <^     <o     <^>     <^>      <c>      *^>      <^> 

(The  Plains  of  Arizona) 

TTHOU  white  and  dried-up  sea !  so  old ! 
•*•      So  strewn  with  wealth,  so  sown  with  gold ! 
Yes,  thou  art  old  and  hoary  white 
With  time,  and  ruin  of  all  things; 
And  on  thy  lonesome  borders  night 
Sits  brooding  o'er  with  drooping  wings. 

The  winds  that  tossed  thy  waves,  and  blew 
Across  thy  breast  the  flowing  sail, 
And  cheered  the  hearts  of  cheering  crew 
From  further  seas,  no  more  prevail. 


THE  PLAINS  OF  ARIZONA  515 

Thy  white-walled  cities  all  lie  prone, 
With  but  a  pyramid,  a  stone, 
Set  head  and  foot  in  sands  to  tell 
The  tired  stranger  where  they  fell. 

The  patient  ox  thai  bended  low 
His  neck,  and  drew  slow  up  and  down 
Thy  thousand  freights  through  rock-built  town, 
Is  now  the  free-born  buffalo. 

No  longer  of  the  timid  fold, 
The  mountain  sheep  leaps  free  and  bold 
His  high-built  summit,  and  looks  down 
From  battlements  of  buried  town. 

Thine  ancient  steeds  know  not  the  rein, 
They  lord  the  land,  they  come,  they  go 
At  will;  they  laugh  at  man,  they  blow 
A  cloud  of  black  steeds  on  the  plain. 

Thy  monuments  lie  buried  now, 
The  ashes  whiten  on  thy  brow, 
The  winds,  the  waves  have  drawn  away, 
The  very  wild  man  dreads  to  stay. 

Oh !  thou  art  very  old.    I  lay, 
Made  dumb  with  awe  and  wonderment, 
Beneath  a  palm  within  my  tent, 


516  THE  WEST 

With  idle  and  discouraged  hands, 
Not  many  days  agone,  on  sands 
Of  awful,  silent  Africa. 


Long  gazing  on  her  mighty  shades, 
I  did  recall  a  semblance  there 
Of  thee.    I  mused  where  story  fades 
From  her  dark  brow  and  found  her  fair. 


And  yet  my  dried-up  desert  sea 
Was  populous  with  blowing  sail. 
And  set  with  city,  white-walled  town, 
All  manned  with  armies  bright  with  mail, 
Ere  yet  that  awful  Sphinx  sat  down 
To  gaze  into  eternity, 
Or  Egypt  knew  her  natal  hour, 
Or  Africa  had  name  or  power. 

Joaquin  Miller. 

Arizona     ^>     <^>     ^y     <^>      <^x      <^x     -o> 

HPHE  kings  of  the  world  have  waxed  and  died  in 
•*•      narrower  states  than  mine; 
And  realms  have  risen  to  rampant  power  to  sink 

in  drear  decline, 
That  were  poor  by  the  measure  of  my  wealth — 

the  creditors  of  the  brine. 


ARIZONA  517 

Across  my  purple  peaks  the  snows  fall  scant  and 

dry  away, 
And  the  bre'asts  of  earth  that  should  be  full  are 

withered  and  rimed  and  gray; 
For  the  chill  is  mine  of  the  dewless  night  till  the 

barren,  aching  day. 


I  call  to  my  heedless,  jeweled  sky — the  shimmer- 
ing wanton  smiles, 

Flinging  her  bacchant  robes  of  cloud  across  the 
thirsty  miles, 

And  the  intimate  stars  come  near  in  the  night  to 
bare  her  mocking  wiles. 


I  call  on  his  hastening  trails  the  wind,  where  the 

mad  dust-demons  glide, 
But  he  answers  me  with  the  sting  of  a  lash  and 

only  a  pause  to  chide; 
And  his  forefront  sweeps  as  a  gloomy  flame  where 

the  silence  stretches  wide. 


For  I  was  old  when  the  Younger  Sea  arose  to  seek 

my  bed, 
And  in  my  tale  'tis  but  a  night  that  he  and  I  were 

wed, 
For  in  the  morn  I  woke  again  and  the  love  of  him 

was  dead. 


518  THE  WEST 

I  rose  and  thrust  him  from  my  side  although  he 
loved  me  well, 

And  he  was  wroth  to  leave  a  house  for  the  wailing 
winds  to  dwell; 

He  cursed  me  with  his  father's  curse,  we  strug- 
gled, and  he  fell. 

And  on  that  morn  across  my  brow  he  seared  an 

open  scar, 
As  the  fingers  of  the  Younger  Sea  have  branded 

with  a  star 
The  brides  that  have  one  time  been  his,  where  his 

roving  footsteps  are. 

For  I  dare  not  show  the  first  love's  gifts  to  him 

that  now  is  lord, 
As  I  am  faithful  to  the  Sun  in  all  things  save  the 

hoard 
Of  hidden  gems  of  the  banished  Sea  that  in  my 

breast  are  stored. 

Now  since  the  Sun  hath  held  me  queen  and  kissed 

my  lips  with  fire, 
I  have  risen  young  each  morn  again  and  robed  in 

queen's  attire, 
Stifling  the  dream  of  other  days  in  the  heat  of  his 

desire. 

Thomas  Wood  Stevens. 


THE  PLAINS  519 

Noon  on  the  Plain     <^>     ^>     ^      <^>     <^y 

(  The  Plains) 

TTHE  horned  toad  creeping  along  the  sand, 
-*•      The  rattlesnake  asleep  beneath  the  sage, 
Have  now  a  subtle  fatal  charm. 
In  their  sultry  calm,  their  love  of  heat, 
I  read  once  more  the  burning  page 
Of  nature  under  cloudless  skies. 
O  pitiless  and  splendid  land! 
Mine  eyelids  close,  my  lips  are  dry 
By  force  of  thy  hot  floods  of  light. 
Soundless  as  oil  the  wind  flows  by, 
Mine  aching  brain  cries  out  for  night ! 

Hamlin  Garland. 
The  Gift  of  Water *     -o>     ^>     <^>     <^     ^ 

(The  Plains) 

"TS  water  nigh?" 

•*•    The  plainsmen  cry, 
As  they  meet  and  pass  in  the  desert  grass. 

With  finger  tip 

Across  the  lip 
I  ask  the  somber  Navajo. 
The  brown  man  smiles  and  answers  "Sho!" 
With  fingers  high,  he  signs  the  miles 

To  the  desert  spring, 
And  so  we  pass  in  the  dry  dead  grass, 

Brothers  in  bond  of  the  water's  ring. 

Hamlin  Garland. 

1  Copyright,  1899,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


520  THE   WEST 

Vaquero     *o     ^>      <^>      -v>     ^     <^>     *^> 

T_TIS   broad-brimmed   hat    pushed   back   with 

•*•  -*•     careless  air, 

The  proud  vaquero  sits  his  steed  as  free 
As  winds  that  toss  his  black  abundant  hair. 
No  rover  ever  swept  a  lawless  sea 
With  such  a  haught  and  heedless  air  as  he 
Who  scorns  the  path,  and  bounds  with  swift  dis- 
dain 

Away,  a  peon  born,  yet  born  to  be 
A  splendid  king;  behold  him  ride  and  reign. 

How  brave  he  takes  his  herds  in  branding  days, 
On  timbered  hills  that  belt  about  the  plain; 
He  climbs,  he  wheels,  he  shouts  through  winding 

ways 

Of  hiding  ferns  and  hanging  fir;  the  rein 
Is  loose,  the  rattling  spur  drives  swift;  the  mane 
Blows  free;  the  bullocks  rush  in  storms  before; 
They  turn  with  lifted  heads,  they  rush  again, 
Then  sudden  plunge  from  out  the  wood,  and  pour 
A  cloud  upon  the  plain  with  one  terrific  roar. 

Now  sweeps  the  tawny  man  on  stormy  steed, 
His  gaudy  trappings  tossed  about  and  blown 
About  the  limbs  as  lithe  as  any  reed; 
The  swift  long  lasso  twirled  above  is  thrown 
From  flying  hand;  the  fall,  the  fearful  groan 


THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  521 

Of  bullock  toiled  and  tumbled  in  the  dust — 
The  black  herds  onward  sweep,  and  all  disown 
The  fallen,  struggling  monarch  that  has  thrust 
His  tongue  in  rage  and  rolled  his  red  eyes  in  dis- 

Joaguin  Miller. 

THE    SANTA    FE   TRAIL 

The  Old  Santa  Fe  Trail     ^     <^>     <^y     <^> 

TT  wound  through  strange  scarred  hills,  down 
•*•     canons  lone 

Where  wild  things  screamed,  with  winds  for  com- 
pany; 

Its  milestones  were  the  bones  of  pioneers. 
Bronzed,  haggard  men,  often  with  thirst  a-moan, 
Lashed  on  their  beasts  of  burden  toward  the  sea : 
An  epic  quest  it  was  of  elder  years, 
For  fabled  gardens  or  for  good,  red  gold, 
The  trail  men  strove  in  iron  days  of  old. 

To-day  the  steam-god  thunders  through  the  vast, 
While  dominant  Saxons  from  the  hurtling  trains 
Smile  at  the  aliens,  Mexic,  Indian, 
Who  offer  wares,  keen-colored,  like  their  past; 
Dread  dramas  of  immitigable  plains 
Rebuke  the  softness  of  the  modern  man; 
No  menace,  now,  the  desert's  mood  of  sand; 
Still  westward  lies  a  green  and  golden  land. 


522  THE  WEST 

For  at  the  magic  touch  of  water,  blooms 
The  wilderness,  and  where  of  yore  the  yoke 
Tortured  the  toilers  into  dateless  tombs, 
Lo !  brightsome  fruits  to  feed  a  mighty  folk. 

Richard  Burton. 


OKLAHOMA 
The  Last  Reservation       <^*      ^      <o      ^> 

(Oklahoma) 

OULLEN  and  dull,  in  the  September  day, 
^     On  the  bank  of  the  river, 
They  waited  the  boat  that  should  bear  them  away 
From  their  poor  homes  forever. 

For  progress  strides  on,  and  the  order  had  gone 

To  these  wards  of  the  nation: 

"Give  us  land  and  more  room,"  was  the  cry, 

"and  move  on 
To  the  next  reservation." 

With  her  babe,  she  looked  back  at  her  home  'neath 

the  trees 

From  which  they  were  driven, 
Where  the  last  camp-fire's  smoke,  borne  out  on 

the  breeze, 
Rose  slowly  toward  heaven. 


OKLAHOMA  523 

Behind  her,  fair  fields,  and  the  forest  and  glade, 
The  home  of  her  nation; 

Around  her,  the  gleam  of  the  bayonet  and  blade 
Of  civilization. 


Clasping  clo^e  to  her  bosom  the  small  dusky  form 

With  tender  caressing, 

She  bent  down,  on  the  cheek  of  her  babe  soft  and 

warm 
A  mother's  kiss  pressing. 

A  splash  in  the  river — the  column  moves  on 
Close-guarded  and  narrow, 
Noting  as  little  the  two  that  are  gone 
As  the  fall  of  a  sparrow. 

Only  an  Indian  !    Wretched,  obscure, 

To  refinement  a  stranger, 

And  a  babe,  that  was  born  hi  a  wigwam  as  poor 

And  rude  as  a  manger. 

Moved  on — to  make  room  for  the  growth  in  the 

West 

Of  a  brave  Christian  nation, 
Moved  on — thank  God,  forever  at  rest 
In  the  last  reservation. 

Walter  Learned. 


524  THE  WEST 

PANAMA 

A  Song  of  Panama      <^>     ^>     <^>     *o     <^> 
"f  HUFF!  chuff!   chuff!"     An'  a    mountain- 

V-r  bluff 

Is  moved  by  the  shovel's  song; 
"  Chuff  !  chuff !  chuff ! "    Oh,  the  grade  is  rough 
A-lif  tin'  the  landscape  along ! 

We  are  ants  upon  a  mountain,  but  we're  leavin'  of 
our  dent, 

An'  our  teeth-marks  bitin'  scenery  they  will  show 
the  way  we  went; 

We're  a-liftin'  half  creation,  an'  we're  changin'  it 
around, 

Just  to  suit  our  playful  purpose  when  we're  dig- 
gin'  in  the  ground. 

"  Chuff !  chuff !  chuff ! "    Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

An'  the  way  to  the  sea  is  long; 
"Chuff !  chuff !  chuff !"  an'  the  engines  puff 

In  tune  to  the  shovel's  song ! 

We're  a-shiftin'  miles  like  inches,  and  we  grab  a 

forest  here 
Just  to  switch  it  over  yonder  so's  to  leave  an  angle 

clear; 


PANAMA  525 

We're  a-pushin'  leagues  o'  swamps  aside  so's  we 

can  hurry  by — 
An'  if  we  had  to  do  it  we  would  probably  switch 

the  sky ! 

"Chuff !  chuff  !  chuff  !"    Oh,  it's  hard  enough 
When  you're  changin'  a  job  gone  wrong; 

"Chuff !  chuff  !  chuff !"  an'  there's  no  rebuff 
To  the  shovel  a-singin'  its  song ! 

You  hears  it  in  the  mornin'  an'  you  hears  it  late 

at  night— 
It's  our  battery  keepin'  action  with  support  o' 

dynamite; 
Oh,  you  gets  it  for  your  dinner,  an'  the  scenery 

skips  along 

In  a  movin'  panorama  to  the  chargin'  shovel's 
song! 

"Chuff !  chuff !  chuff !"  an'  it  grabs  the  scruff 

Of  a  hill  an'  boosts  it  along; 
"  Chuff !  chuff !  chuff ! "    Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

But  it  gives  to  the  shovel's  song ! 

This  is  a  fight  that's  fightin',  an'  the  battle's  to 

the  death; 
There  ain't  no  stoppin'  here  to  rest  or  even  catch 

your  breath;  • 


526  THE  WEST 

You  ain't  no  noble  hero,  an'  you  leave  no  gallant 

name — 
You're  a-fightin'  Nature's  army,  an'  it  ain't  no 

easy  game ! 

"  Chuff !  chuff !  chuff ! "    Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

An'  the  way  to  the  end  is  long, 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  the  engines  puff 

As  we  lift  the  landscape  along ! 

Alfred  Damon  Runyon. 


DELIGHTFUL   ANTHOLOGIES 

POEMS   FOR   TRAVELERS 

Compiled  by  MARY  R.  J.  DuBois.  i6mo.  $1.50  net,  cloth;  $2.50 
net,  leather. 

Covers  France,  Germany.  Austria,  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  Greece 
in  some  three  hundred  poems  (nearly  one-third  of  them  by  Ameri- 
cans) from  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  poets.  All  but  some  forty 
of  these  poems  were  originally  written  in  English. 


THE   POETIC    OLD-WORLD 

Compiled  by  Miss  L.  H.  HUMPHREY. 

Covers  Europe,  including  Spain.  Belgium,  and  the  British  Isles, 
in  some  two  hundred  poems  irom  about  ninety  poets.  Some  thirty, 
not  originally  written  in  English,  are  given  in  both  the  original  and 
the  best  available  translation. 

THE   OPEN   ROAD 

A  little  book  for  wayfarers.     Compiled  by  E.  V.  LUCAS. 

Some  125  poems  from  over  60  authors,  including  Fitzgerald,  Shel- 
ley, Shakespeare,  Kenneth  Grahame,  Stevenson,  Whitman,  Brown- 
ing, Keats,  Wordsworth,  Matthew  Arnold,  Tennyson,  William  Mor- 
ris, Maurice  Hewlett,  Isaak  Walton,  William  Barnes,  Herrick,  Dob- 
son,  Lamb,  Milton,  Whittier,  etc.,  etc. 

THE   FRIENDLY   TOWN 

A  little  book  for  the  urbane.     Compiled  by  E.  V.  LUCAS. 

Over  200  selections  in  verse  and  prose  from  100  authors,  including 
Lowell.  Burroughs,  Herrick,  Thackeray,  Scott,  .Milton,  Cowley, 
Browning,  Stevenson,  Henley,  Longfellow,  Keats,  Swift,  Meredith, 
Lamb,  Lang,  Dobson,  Fitzgerald,  Pepys,  Addison,  Kemble,  Boswell, 
Holmes,  Walpole,  and  Lovelace. 

These  three  books  are  uniform,  with  full  gilt  flexible  covers  and  pictured 
cover  linings.  i6mo.  Each,  cloth,  $  1.50  net;  leather,  $2.50  net. 


A   BOOK   OF   VERSES   FOR   CHILDREN 

Over  200  poems  representing  some  80  authors.  Compiled  by  E. 
V.  LUCAS.  With  decorations  by  F.  D.  BEDFORD.  Revised  edition. 
$2.00.  Library  edition,  $1.00  net. 

"  We  know  of  no  other  anthology  for  children  so  complete  and  well 
arranged. " — Cr  it  ic. 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


